It is getting bad again.

It is getting bad again.

I have found these words lingering in my mind, in between the hours spent in bed and staring at the mess in my room. They seem to nag a little harder when I am rolled up in blankets, facing the wall in a dark room in the light of day. These words pull hard when it has been another night, sitting in the heaviness and being the prey of the tormenter of my mind.

And that is the reality. It is getting bad again.

I have been witness to these words a myriad of times over the course of multiple years. It doesn’t usually arise loudly or with great chaos. The words don’t kick down my door, shaking me into reality with all hell crashing down. These words seem to be more of a whisper, barely hanging onto the air in the room. They surface quietly and hushed; in a haunted fashion. They touch my shoulder scarcely as I retreat into isolation more often -- as the dirty dishes pile up , as I push people away, as I shrivel into my shell, as I cannot find the words as well, as I do not pick up the pen anymore, as the art ceases to be made --

It is getting bad again. Sometimes it does.

Sometimes the gusts of depression are stronger and knock me to the ground. Sometimes I crumble and bend to the gales. It is getting bad again. But I know it gets better. The wind will calm, the raging gales will pass, and the fog will dissipate -- May this be a reminder to you, as much as it is to me, wherever you happen to be.

The fog will lift.

untitled.

there is fog on the window

and the more i breathe,

i cannot see --

it clings to the atmosphere and wells up.

there is fog on the window

and there is more disconnect with my surroundings --

they are indistinct and undefined

and i cannot find my bearings.

there is fog on the window

and i am tired of not knowing where i am going,

making a guessing game out of the maps and directions

there is fog on the window

it harrowing and heavy --

but i am certain that the weather will change,

the day will end,

i will get up, try again,

and again

and the fog will always eventually lift.

- s.p.

Written by Sveta Petty

Photography by Jen Veloso