The Obsidian Cliff

Posted on February 7, 2007 in Depression Frustration

Something left me last summer, during the episode where I found myself spending hours just lying on my bed. In the previous weeks, I felt exuberance for life: even my depressions boasted delightful involutions of thought and creative effort.

Now, six months after The Fall, I find myself unable to raise a pen. I can’t make much sense out of my encounters — I can’t put together a Scheme of Things or a Dynamic Narrative out of everyday life. I do not invent. I have lost my creative edge.

The best metaphor I can think of is this: an [[obsidian]] cliff, sheer and smooth, has arisen in my path. There’s no going around it because it rose beneath my feet. I am in a cleft or on a slope. There are no footholds. The sound of my consciousness is a pebble rolling in a porcelain bowl. Empty. Too clean, too polished. My native roughness against a surface utterly devoid of handholds.

My psychiatrist assures me that it will come back. My therapist assures me that I will not wallow long. But my love of writing and my zest for photography have left me. There’s no steam, no hyperthymia, no passion.