How to be depressed

For all people not knowing what happens or goes on in the mind and life of a depressed person: here’s the 101..

First things first. You start off by sleeping at 6 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon. Get up raising your eyebrows in a welcoming gesture to the dark clouds that surround you and the suffocating fog that occupies your mind. Don’t get out to get fresh air. If you must, limit yourself only to go buy alcohol and cigarettes*, and occasionally a loaf of bread and some cheese which you’ll then live from the rest of the week. Oh and noodles, also do the job. Spasm out every once in a while to spend excessive portions of money on healthy and exclusive foods to then cook yourself a luscious and elaborate dinner, which you will stuff yourself so full with, so that the rest of the week you will punish yourself for feeling fat by eating just grilled cheese sandwiches again.

Lash out at everyone you love, to then cry yourself asleep, realizing how you’re all alone in the world and have nothing to live for, because you don’t deserve to exist.

Don’t finish anything you ever start, whether it’s a formal obligation like school or passionate ambition like writing a book. Make sure to satisfy the necessity to confirm that you’re an all time failure at all things you attempt.

*{editor’s note: wrote this 5 years ago, I don’t smoke anymore}


Disclamer: This is of course not an actual guide on how to be depressed. Please note that you may choose however you want to be about it. I wrote this purely from my own experiences with depression. Yes, I am that open about it. No, I don’t care what anyone thinks of it.

Confessions of a Rapist.

I raped a girl today. It wasn’t my intention. But it happened. I don’t know if it was because I felt like she was showing signs of wanting me. Or because I just wanted to, in spite of anything she wanted.
At the moment, I didn’t think. I didn’t think about any of that. Because I guess I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of that. I saw what I wanted and I took it. And I took it good. Maybe she even enjoyed it. Maybe she just pretended to not want it. Girls do that sometimes. They say no, because they’re not sure, because they feel it’s wrong, because they want to play games. Not because they really don’t want it.

So I took her to a place nobody would come by. I knew that, because I’ve been there before. To just be alone and smoke weed or drink and think about things. I took her there and I sat her down. We talked, I thought I could talk her into being into me. She did show signs of liking me, but I still wasn’t sure. So I just started touching her. She did say ‘no’, but it wasn’t very convincing. She seemed insecure. So I went on. I took her hand and put it on my body. I told her to suck my dick. She said she had never done that before. What? She was 19 years old, 1 year older than me. How could she have never done that before.
I told her to try, she said she didn’t want to. But I was already hard, I don’t know why. Maybe because of the look in her eyes, asking for me to save her, or her trembling lips, that I wanted to touch so badly. I took her hand and put it on my dick. I told her to touch it. I lifted up my sweatpants and put her hand in my boxers. Her eyes became large. That meant she liked it, right?
She tried to pull her hand back, but I didn’t let her. I got up and pulled her up with me. I turned her around and kissed her neck. That way she would feel comfortable. Comfortable and happy about what was going to happen. She kept saying ‘no’, but I felt like she didn’t mean it. I pulled down her pants and her underwear. Now she was begging ‘please don’t do this’.
Those were just words though, she didn’t do anything to stop me. I pulled out my dick and put it at the entrance. I pushed in and it felt so tight and warm, wet even.

If she’s wet, how can she say she doesn’t want it? How can she not want this? It feels so good. I hold her tightly around her waist. She screams ‘no, please stop’ a couple of times. She puts her nails in the skin of my arm. I tighten my grip and hold her firmly. She’s not going anywhere. She is mine, for now. I thrust in and out. I fuck her hard and deep. Now she can’t deny me anything. No one can deny me this. I’ve earned this, I deserve this. She belongs to me. Her body is my pleasure. She keeps begging me to stop. It’s starting to get annoying. I tell her to wait, I’m almost done. I feel like I’m going to cum, but she needs to shut up. She’s so tight and warm, her body feels so smooth and soft in my arms. How can she not feel what I’m feeling? This feeling is awesome, fucking awesome!
She has her hands covering her mouth now. See, she does enjoy it, she has to control herself not to scream in delight. I thrust a couple more times and I cum. I empty out all my built up frustration and sensation in her precious little hole. I stay in there for a minute. Trying to regain the feeling, trying to block out her crying. She’s ruining it for me!

I pull out and walk away to clean my dick. I come back and she’s still standing in the position I left her. I must’ve fucked her in shock, that’s how good it was. She can’t even move, that’s how good it was. It must have been that good to her. She has her hand covering her mouth and she’s crying. Fuck, why is she still crying? Wasn’t it as good to her as it was to me? I try to pull up her pants, just so nobody will catch us here. She doesn’t cooperate, but she also doesn’t struggle against me. She’s still crying.

What did I do? What’s her fucking problem!? Wasn’t it great for both of us? I take her to sit down again. I wipe her tears and try to comfort her. She doesn’t say anything, and is just crying, still.
I try to talk to her, while stroking her head, but she seems so distant. The things I say, do not seem to reach her. I don’t know what to do anymore, I’m giving up. I’ll just take her back to the station. I’ll just get rid of her, as soon as possible. What a disappointment this is.

Fuck! I guess I just raped her…

Heavy on the heart…this happened 8 years ago today.. (written in my perception of his perspective)


memories no longer matter
everything i now do
is only for the better
with or without you

i no longer care
or wait to expect for
you to be there
i’m looking for more

than you could ever give
i have more of me
than you allow me to live
we will never be

like we never really were
i’m over us
done with who you are
so obvious

manipulating me into
guilt and insecurity
this love wasn’t true
nothing like trust or purity

and now you’re losing
i’m taking back control
i’m not for your amusement
in my fate lays a greater role

The ability to write…

Periods of time gone by, I only find myself now in the right place and time and most importantly in the position of ability to …write.
It’s hard to specify what makes it possible for me to write. What are the necessary factors that play a part in the proces of writing.

First of all, a certain sense of peace and rest, calmth and emptiness. Creativity and inspiration get killed by an overflow of information. Both visual as auditive noise can murder the flow of a thinker, a writer. Anything breaking the chain of concentration has to be diminished and eliminated in order to keep steady a stable progress.

It often occurs that one finds him- or herself in the right place and time and even ability to write a piece. The concentration flow has been sacredly kept save and isolated from any interference or ‘contra flow’. The creativity and inspiration seem close at hand, but somehow remain unreachable. Writers call it ‘writersblock’, although this term can also refer to not having any creativity or inspiration or whatsoever at all. I call this ‘flow lock’. All the right features are in place, the mental space filled with nothing but emptiness, calmth covers the senses. A river of creative cognition and intellectual inspiration is running through the mind rapidly. Until it hits a barrier, a large iron watergate. You can feel the creativity and inspiration bubble up and burst into the gate. But there seems no way to let it loose. Like a mime player, in an imaginary box. An enraged lion in a golden cage. A dancer whose legs got amputated. It feels like a handicap, a disability. Failure.

Failure means, making an attempt that turns out to be or become unsuccesful. Failure does not have to be taken negatively. Failure can be seen as the road to success: after falling off your bike a hundred times, the hundred-and-first time you manage to stay on it! Failure can also be seen as a process of learning: the experience you gain through the many failures you make, can be or become useful for other purposes. Generally, people link failure to a feeling of guilt. They somehow feel bad because they weren’t succesful. They thought they should or could have done better.

I think this sad ‘shoulda coulda woulda’ story is nothing but an excuse to the easy way out. Failure is the first step towards success. Without failure, success would not exist as it would not be distinguised as such. Without failure, every attempt, every action, every plan would be a success, because failure would simply not exist. And to be honest, not every attempt, action and plan is worth a success. Failure is necessary to learn, to grow, to be humble and greatful, to stay grounded and keep relativating. Seeing things in the right order and perspective clears the road to success. Practising and improving yourself continuously is the one purpose of failure.

Not being able to write, makes me able to write. The imaginary box, the golden cage, the iron gates and the amputated legs make me search myself thouroughly. It makes me investigate my mental skills, put them to the test and stretch their limits. The disability makes me ambitious. Ambitious to be able, be stable, be capable of doing what I want. Putting my creativity to product, injecting my inspiration into a project. Making dreams come to life, by keeping dreams alive inside. Reality begins and ends in the mind.

One can mentally kill or give birth to, neglect or nurse, destroy and destruct or enjoy and conduct any thing. And any thing mentally can be put to reality, through writing alone. Writing makes any idea, any concept, any lingering figment or thought a concrete thing. To read or learn, wonder about or teach. Language by itself, is the key to reality. And the writer…
The writer is the goldsmith that forged the key.