Song of the Damned

Come now, love!
Let me tell you an old tale.
One about the Song of the Damned.
It is said in the lores that there was once a girl who sang a strange song. She sat on the branch of a dead tree and sang it in an ancient, foreign tongue. It was no ordinary song. It was the song of her life. It radiated tones of meloncholy and hopelessness.
Nobody liked her. Nobody liked it.
Thousands gathered at the mountain she sang at. The crowd stretched as far as the eye could see until one day, to look towards the horizon meant looking towards a mass of humanity: era after era, lifeline after lifeline dropping dead, always trying to get closer to the girl and her song. As the centuries passed, the numbers grew as word of the girl’s song spread.
The question is: Why listen to a song so abhorring, for a lifetime?

Imagine having your headphones on. One monotony after another playing on loop. One huge spiral of mind-numbing routines, deadlines and rotting hearts, all put together to form a broken story. Of a broken individual.

For you see, ‘Broken’ was the label plastered on Humanity’s forehead since the beginning of time. According to the lore, every single person who gathered to hear the girl’s song had a Broken story that they had spent lifetimes trying to repair. And failed.

And hence, they heard the song. The revolting song that crushed all hope from their meek bones and left them crippled. They heard the song to learn the truth which they would never hear from themselves.
They heard the song say that being ‘Broken’ or in modern terms, ‘Depression’ wasn’t a pit that you fell into while tripping over an imaginary branch. Neither was it a sea that you waded into with a deflated rubber duck or a drunk swimming instructor. And it sure as hell wasn’t a void that you got vaccumed into.

It was, as a matter of fact, a burden that you carried. Atop your head. The pressure of the burden is felt from time to time, varying based on your strength and the extent to which you want to find comfort in pills and foetal positions. It is an ever-present, unshapely burden, poised to descend on your mind like a metaphorical stake to stem your thoughts.

Or that is what the song said.

Or that is what the lore says about the song.

I guess it doesn’t really matter. It can all be a load of crap, as you like to call most things these days.

What matters is that you need to put those headphones back on and change the track. You need to count the pills in your palm, the ones from the little orange bottles. Count two. Nothing more. You need to curl up in a foetal position and sleep on the other side of the bed.
You need to Sleep. And you need to Dream.
And who knows?
Maybe you are dreaming right now.


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