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Tomorrow, I will not wake up and find that my mind has let me go. When I open my eyes the morning after that, I still will not see the sense in it all. And as the weeks go by, whether I spend my days wallowing or sleeping or drawing or writing, I will not find my way out of these thoughts.

Unwarranted sorrow and despair will continue to greedily fill the space in my head. Thick, concrete, windowless walls of feelings pressing against me will close in. An all-consuming kind of grief will soon prevail in blocking me in and shutting everyone else out. Before you know it, the baseless sadness will have flattened me.

Walled off in my own special prison, I will lie there mutely staring at the blankness. I still might momentarily fantasize about pushing back or breaking away. Perhaps, I will imagine banging my skull against the cold hardness surrounding me. But it will be too late. My bones might have had the strength to withstand blows on concrete, but the distance between my head and those walls will no longer be great enough for me to have any impact.

Outside my head, people will tell me to try to remember “before” or they’ll say to search for a glimmer of hope. I will obediently listen and look for any sign of alteration in the tiny sliver of my mind that remains accessible. When I hear the dead silence and see the opaque blackness, though, I won’t feel discouraged. I will welcome that promising quietness with all its power to soothe and absorb me in the end.

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