I look better when I’m depressed. Softer in appearance. Almost beautiful, really. I am muted and subtle, more natural in a quiet, almost mysterious way. There’s something about my eyes when I’ve retreated fully within myself. I pull back from the world, and despair washes over my features, painting them in confidence and resolve. I look self-assured, knowing. But the truth is I know nothing. My appearance seems effortless, carefree. But the reality is I’m simply too tired to care, too withdrawn from the world around me to bother with carefully applied makeup and thoughtful attire. It softens me, though. Removes any air of self-consciousness that conspicuously reads as trying too hard.
It’s the time of year when people start feeling good. The sun comes out more frequently, stays out longer. The cold bite of winter is slowly beginning to fade, as spring comes creeping in, breezy and fresh and smelling of new, wet earth. But I always have trouble when the seasons begin to turn. Always feel a bit dragged down by the knowledge that time marches steadily on, and I am no better prepared than I was yesterday, or the day before.
The park is full of happy joggers, children laughing and playing on the swing sets and jungle gyms, couples strolling lazily hand in hand. And I am the woman standing at the top of a hill, watching everyone live and move joyously around her.
At home, I look in the mirror and think, “I look prettier than usual,” because my eyes are like dark, deep pools reaching way back through time, filling with all the pain and frustration of seasons come and gone, of time that has melted away like winter snow. I see everything, feel almost nothing, and am somehow liberated by this lack of balance.
I look better when I’m depressed, because I don’t care how I look at all.