write/ older entries/ / miss miranda/ burningtheletters.net

2002-12-02 - 1:03 a.m. depression is like this: it stagnates, it grows mold like the insides of your car window did when we parked it under that tree in seattle. it grew and grew, i'll never forget the smell, we'd roll the windows down in mid-winter, seattle, rain pouring in horizontally to splash our faces, anything to escape the feel of riding in a moldy car, to escape that feeling of damp stagnation i could never escape, to raise my feet off the floor an inch so that no part of my body or my clothes would ever have to be touching that growth, that disease. but i couldn't escape it, nor could you. it was on our clothes, on our shoes, in our hair, on our skin. even when we didn't ride in the car for a week or two, the smell wouldn't go away. you stopped parking under that tree, took the car in for repairs, they said they fixed the problem, but it still had the same smell, the same death within it. depression is like this, but all in my head, all inside the places i'll never get to clean out, all mold on my soul and i can't get rid of the smell and it grows grows grows. you can sell the car, break up with the boy, move away from the city, get out of the rain, but it never leaves you behind. it is you, it is me. it's unescapable. ( 0 tell me?)