You cannot pretend it is not dark inside,
that there is no chill in the air around you.
The weather inside rarely changes.
But there are doors and windows galore,
and warmth is never far away
for those who choose to walk through them.
About this poem
“Your depression seems to be gone.” writes one reader.
No, it is not. I still beat it back every day. But sometimes life is so golden that if you choose not to celebrate the joy, you are committing emotional suicide. And me? I want to live. I’m nuts that way.