We can think about these things, think of them as needles slowly burying themselves in our heads and in our hearts and in our spirit and feel unable to escape and rise above these obstacles, think of them in the middle of work, in the middle of conversations, in the middle of our daily tasks and tell ourselves we are in pain, unbearable and unrelenting, or we can physically draw deep cuts on our body so we would feel this, this pain, because we need to express this melancholy and this rage and this torment, place ourselves in a widening gyre, jump in between giant, interlocking gears, or we can drown ourselves in alcohol and drugs and sex to shield ourselves from this pain, or express them in art or music or writing or psychotherapy or sertraline, or we can do all of them at the same time, all at the same time, but it wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t. Change. A thing.

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