As melancholia replaced the jarring of my invention, I sat. Unable to breathe in the smog I had created, unable to stand on my betraying legs, unable to howl at the heavens over my sordid soul. In this inferno, I became paroxysmic, my self-hatred, superparamount, numbness dulling the agony of such a devilish act, An iron curtain fell upon the surrounding world, or at least what I had left of it to be owned by the laconic eclipse. All the angels fled, disowning my prayers, the lurid world backed away, leaving me forsaken and detached, I could no longer hear the bombings, hear them fall, my own fabrication, only the dead air that came after, the intense silence. Cynical and paralyzed, I realized I had purloined a portion of Hell and given it to the unwilling Earth, Punishing those I had no right to punish, judging those I had no reason to condemn, destroying cities I had never set foot in. This is how I became Death, the destroyer of Worlds. Moonshine Noire
About This Quote

When you are depressed, you are so full of sadness that finding a face to put to your feelings is next to impossible. However, I was rereading this text the other day, and I found something that I have not seen before. The idea about being able to invent or create, but being unable to breathe in the smog you have created. This is strange, because if you are depressed you are usually not able to think straight or give your full attention.

If you are unable to focus on your work then it is impossible for you to invent something new. This is why depression can be both strange and strange at the same time. You are able to think of something new but you are unable to make it happen.

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