Being old and lazy is a new hobby for me. I like to lay around on bed all day, with soothing therapeutic oil, Vicks inhaler while reading books or playing games in my phone. It’s heaven to be lazy.

This could be my depression. Not caring at all of what’s going on the world outside. No social media, chat apps, no interaction. So free. So unproductive. Such a privilige, draining savings for such a life consummation.

The only time to move is when eating, peeing, and shitting. I could do this for days. Getting fat and ugly with indifference. Am I happy? Sad? I don’t know. I just know that I am alive. And I am wasting time. I am letting it pass hoping that when I get drowsy, I wouldn’t wake up anymore.

Sometimes I do feel restless, even when I’m resting. Like there’s a nerve that needed to move. To work. But then, I took my pills and go down again. Awake. Asleep. And again. And again.

So during my days of depression, I tried my best to write my feelings in a journal, it has to be handwritten, and also I tried my best to have basic function in life, create a routine that doesn’t need perfection. Just enough to keep me going. I found expressive writing to be a truly amazing tools, especially in finding a my red flag. I found my red flag when people started to see me too loud or too emotional. I withdraw for a moment to breath out. Finish the work for the day and lock myself in my room having me time which was doing nothing.

I always managed to work again everytime because I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got mouths to feed, including myself. So I woke up, have some coffee and cigs, and I work like a robot. I work on anything, I sell stuff online or simply writing, if there are no classes or shooting. My aim is not perfection. Just function.

At the end, being like a robot is the only way to be human. Fake it till I make it is a great motto, because to make it doesnt have to be perfect and being imperfect is being human.

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