I can’t read.
I feel like I have to scream and shout that. Stamp my feet at the unfairness of it all.
The written word and all its wisdoms have always been there for me, during sickness and health and I thought they would until death do us part.
The beautiful complexity of language, the way one can take 26 simple characters and weave them into a story powerful enough to bring us to tears, inspiring enough for us to change our lives.
I loved diving into waves of words, sinking into the depths of someone else’s imagination.
Exploring unknown lands, vanquishing enemies and forming lifelong bonds with comrades.
Depression has stolen this from me.
Words waver blurily in front of my tired eyes.
Stories start, stutter and stop.
Worlds are no longer woven into reality.
I am no longer gazing lovingly at books, way past staring, I’m glaring at them, challenging them, demanding they become what my imagination needs them to be.
Depression has stolen my patience, my concentration, my imagination…
Depression has stolen the love of my life.
Without books, what do I have?