A little while ago, I received a very nice note from a friend. It is always gratifying to encounter the selflessness and empathy friends are capable of. I decided to post my reply to her as it contains my method by which I am dealing with depression spelled out as well as I can muster. I will not print her original note and I have changed the name as her privacy need not be shared in this place.
The note:
Thanks, M. Actually, another good friend suggested meditation as
well. I may try some of the techniques at some point. For now, however,
writing is my meditation, my exploration of my psyche, the method I use
to digest the world. I write all kinds of things, some direct
examinations, others oblique, reflected thoughts. Writing is more than a
manipulation of words to make a coherent sentence. It is truth and
clarity and reason, it is music and poetry and painting, a world within a
world. It is impossible for me to lie to myself when I write: the words
are there, all perfect and drawn, a snapshot of truth. When I pause and
read what I write, I read with a rhythm, a pulse of synapse, ticking
away, a metronome of thought. And when that rhythm is interrupted, a
hitch in the truth or a false mirror, I feel it, as when a drummer is
dragging the beat. That is the same rhythm, I suspect, of meditation,
the same internal tick, the Godhead, the only absolute. I am a
translator, interpreting my mind for my mind, acknowledging always the
rhythm of my conscience.
Thank you for your interest in my
thoughts. It really means a lot that you take the time to send me such
suggestions. Camus was a charlatan and a nihilist: the world has within
it many good people, like you, who have genuine feelings of empathy and
concern and it is a better place for it.
Yours in hope ,
G
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