In an antique library whose shelves seemed to reach for the sky, Depression was crawling along with great difficulty; she looked restless. It was a dark figure, covered by a threadbare cloak that seemed to absorb all the light around it. She had arrived at that point in the library looking for some answers, attracted by a poem written in a language that seemed strange, almost archaic, to her. The poem was a mirror of her own existence, but its language, full of ancient words and complex phrases, was impenetrable to her.
She stood in front of a huge book open on a lectern with the lines of the poem written in sober, burnt ink. She got up with difficulty and began to read it. The words seemed to mock her, dancing in her mind without revealing their meaning.
-What didn’t you know? –Depression murmured, reading the first words aloud. Her voice echoed through the library, but instead of clarity, the phrase left an echo of confusion in the air.
She closed her eyes trying to understand. But the words seemed loaded with an intention that she couldn’t decipher. “Let’s be honest, tell our truths.” What did that mean? Who was talking? Was it the poem or someone else?
Depression sighed, frustrated. She felt ridiculous. Ridiculous because, despite being an entity as old as time itself, it could not understand the human language that it claimed to know so much. But also in parts, she felt helpless, grotesque, absurd, limited.
-What didn’t you feel? –She continued reading, with a slight tremor in her voice. The words spoke of shadows, of laws and chances of a loneliness that seemed familiar, but that still eluded her. She felt like a stranger in a world that should be hers.
The library began to respond to her.
The books began to whisper, in low and serious voices, from the different shelves where they were located.
-What don’t you know, Depression? –Said one of the oldest books.
-What don’t you want? –Added another, with a more accusatory tone.
Depression receded, feeling the full weight of the words fall on her. The lines of the poem intertwined with the whispers of the books, forming questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“I am a hidden cry,” she said out loud, repeating the words of the poem. Was that a description of herself? Or an accusation?
For a moment she felt that the verses were a reflection of her own nature. Was she not also a contradiction, a shadow that fed on fear and loneliness, but that sometimes seemed almost necessary?
-What do you not hate? –Asked the voice from a book behind her.
Depression turned around trying to locate the source, but all she found was her own reflection in a dusty mirror. The poem, like an echo, repeated the words in her mind.
“Your savage behavior is not fortuitous… you will suffer the danger of your own bonfire.”
She remained undaunted. For the first time she understood something: the poem was neither an attack nor a mockery. It was a desperate attempt by humans to understand her, to dialogue with her. And at the same time, it was a complaint. The words written in that ancient Spanish were a confrontation with her own essence, a battle between the human who suffered and the entity that caused that suffering.
“I will always lie to you…” She whispered, feeling a new weight in those words. Was she the one lying, or were the humans lying to her?
Depression was left lying on the ground, unable to solve the poem’s enigma. She felt trapped not only by the words she didn’t understand, but by the fact that those words seemed to expose her.
She came to the end of the poem, and it ended with a warning:
“Don’t look for me anymore, conciliation no longer exists here”
Could it be true? Had the humans decided to leave her behind, and find their own solution? For a moment, she felt a pang of fear. If they didn’t need it, what was the point of their existence?
But then, with a resigned sigh, she tried to stand up, but couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to fully understand the poem, but she could feel it. It was a challenge, yes, but also an invitation to reflect. Although the words remained a mystery, she understood that she had to continue reading until she reached the end. Maybe somewhere between the lines of the poem she would find answers about herself, that she didn’t even know what she was looking for.
She reached the end of the poem and was able to decipher the following: “Stand up, which is what we humans do when you are present, and walk. We walk long distances until we notice that you get bored and abandon us; you stay away from us for long periods.”
Depression managed to stand up and remained in the library reading the poem over and over again, walking and reading. Sometimes she felt ridiculous, but at the same time knowing that there was something deeply human in that ridiculousness.
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