A Willy-willy of Associative Writing

Willy-willy: nounplural willy-willies. Australian.
1. a severe tropical cyclone.

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Free write. Sad. Gee, I wish it was bloody tropical right now. Lucky I ordered a hot water bottle on Amazon today. Why the hell couldn’t I just find one in a shop easily? I miss home. Tangential thoughts. Racing. I know brain, let’s play a game. Start the sentence with a word, start the next sentence with the last word of the previous sentence. Doesn’t matter if you can’t do it, just try. Write. Write about depression before the spiral gets going.

Depression is like being in a permanent state of grief. But it’s also like a stencil. A stencil where the whole picture relies on the perfect balance composition of negative and positive space.

Space. Has a closeness to intimacy I don’t always recognise. Space is something different to distance, to time, space is a concept. Proved by the fact you’ve only been away two days and it feels like weeks, and that I’ve been gone weeks and today it feels like years but yesterday it only felt like a weekend. I made space in my wallet today. It was a passing comment about keeping everything I ever owned in my wallet and I felt so observed, in that split second, that unexpected reveal of a tiny, intimate, unkempt detail of my life; that today I cleaned it out. Intimacy made more space in my wallet. It also made me find a photo of my dog in reindeer ears, which seemed fitting because it’s the second of December and she died when I was in Germany the last time. Depression is small today, subdued, but it quietly pipes up to speculate it’s a sign I will lose something else I love this time around when the distance is too great for me to do anything but accept monumental loss amplified by absence.

Absence. There’s an absence of all the people I call to catch me when the flames of my own worries melt my solid self-reliance. There’s also an absence of all the things I usually do to catch myself when there aren’t the people I rely on, around. As of ten minutes ago, there is also an absence of old used metro tickets in my wallet. It’s a precarious situation really. Perhaps being a long way from everything is just me trying to prove to myself I really can do it all by myself. Maybe this is a mentally ill person’s idea of thrill-seeking. Maybe it’s a sane persons idea of adventure. Maybe it’s both. It’s a bit like the Wizard of Oz, only I don’t have a little scruffy dog to accompany me. I wish I did. I miss my scruffy dogs, I miss all the scruffy dogs in my life.

Every so often I am blown away from the familiarities of my own mind.  The Willy-willy (let’s keep it in perspective, it’s hardly a hurricane) of thoughts, the disorientating spiral. Like Dorothy, I’ve still got courage, compassion, and intellect as my friends. And depression? Depression is sometimes called the Black Dog. I guess I’ll call mine Toto.

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