What’s the best way to deal with negative thoughts?
If depression were a person—
I think I’d meet them at dawn.
Not noon,
not when the world is loud with pretending,
but dawn—
when the sky is still deciding
whether it wants to be light.
We’d sit somewhere quiet.
Somewhere the shadows
are still stretching their long black limbs
across the pavement.
And I’d ask—
Coffee?
Black.
Bitter.
The kind that tastes
like the inside of my chest.
And maybe we wouldn’t talk.
Maybe we’d just sit there
with silence
heavy enough
to fold over us like wet laundry.
Because some silences
don’t sit politely between people—
some silences
press down
like a lead blanket
you didn’t ask for
but can’t kick off.
And eventually
I’d look them in the eyes and say—
Why?
Why do you stay so long?
Why do you set up camp
in the corners of my mind
like you’ve signed a lease
with my worst thoughts?
Because you laugh in places
that used to echo with music.
You sit in rooms
that used to be full of friends.
You whisper things like:
You’re not enough.
You’re not enough.
You’re not enough.
And sometimes
I try to fight you.
My fists clench like punctuation marks.
I swing at the air
like anger might connect with something solid.
Every punch saying:
Leave.
Leave.
Leave.
But depression
is the kind of opponent
that doesn’t bruise.
It just waits.
Cold fingers wrapped around the ribs
like it’s checking
to make sure my lungs
remember how to struggle.
And sometimes
I don’t fight.
Sometimes I hide.
Under blankets.
Under excuses.
Under the quiet lie of
“I’m just tired today.”
The world outside becomes muffled—
like life is happening
through three closed doors
and a wall of water.
But the worst part?
You never leave.
You’re not a visitor.
You’re a roommate
who never pays rent.
Sometimes I run.
God, I run.
Feet pounding pavement
like I can outrun the gravity in my chest.
I chase small joys
like they’re fireflies—
laughter with friends
the color of sunrise
the sudden miracle
of feeling okay
for three whole minutes.
But you—
you are always
one breath
behind me.
Breathing doubt
into the rhythm of my pulse.
So I wonder…
What if instead
of fighting
or hiding
or running—
What if I invited you in?
Sat you down.
Poured you tea.
Listened.
Maybe you’d tell me
about all the broken places
you were born from.
Maybe I’d understand
how you twist my memories
into evidence—
how every mistake
becomes another stone
in the pockets of my chest.
And maybe
in that strange understanding
we’d become something like dancers—
two tired souls
moving in a slow, aching waltz
trying not to step
on each other’s pain.
But listen—
If depression were a person
standing in front of me
right now—
I wouldn’t destroy them.
I wouldn’t run.
I’d look them in the eye
and say:
I know you’re hurting too.
But you don’t get
to be my whole story.
And maybe—
just maybe—
we’d call a truce.
A fragile one.
The kind where light
slips through the cracks
in the walls you built.
The kind where hope
doesn’t roar—
it flickers.
Small.
Stubborn.
Like a candle
that refuses
to go out.
(c)BobChristian
