Diary of A Depressed Black Man

In these pitch black corners, I’ve sat quietly like a stalker with unlimited patience. I’ve waited for the season of poison to dissolve the crystals of my affection in one swoop. And it didn’t disappoint.

When I was 7, I thought love was being abused by a 19 year old girl college freshman When I was 8, I thought love was asking her to marry me. I painted a portrait of love for her, and when I had departed with the promise of forever with her, she set it on fire. She’d robbed me, and left me stranded at the altar with nothing but the wooden ring which I’d carved out of a withered tree branch for her. I died on that day. It was as if someone had run a knife through my entrails with no remorse, and with no mercy.

The years have slipped into oblivion. My skin has matured with a sense of comfort and care. My mind, on the other hand, has yet to have a feel of what maturity looks like. I have often loved the darkness, and often wondered when the light would challenge me to be better. I’m a broken soul, maybe hell-bound with no remorse, and no regret. The life I live, I live in the shadows of my own eerie reflection.

For what it’s worth, you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. I could fade away on a cloudless summer day, or on a beautiful spring day, and no one would remember my existence, however brief it was. The days slip into oblivion, and I have yet to grasp the full extent of my own nature and why I do what I do.

You still can’t love this.


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