In the darkest of moments, reading invigorates and writing stills. Sinking into pain, like a stagnant body of water, life quickly feels squalid, sickly and directionless. But if this stinging ennui is at all existential, then it must be recognised as a resource and a reservoir. If the question asked is: “What’s the point of all this?”, then the answer must be honest but active. “There is no point, other than that spike you sharpen and whittle and grind for yourself.” Writing becomes a compulsive distraction when one is instilled with the fanciful idea that the articulation of all joy and all pain is essential. What makes terror and horror worthwhile is your own making it worthwhile. Writing becomes the only sure way of paying tribute to experience that does not demand the shedding of blood. Silence thoughts by giving them stony form in words. When all feels hopeless in depression’s false certainty, see what you can write through the will to chance. In the words of Jeru the Damaja: “I annihilate as I articulate / words of power, your rhymes are unconfounding so death’s your fate.”
