Just an old joke I heard for the first time today. Everything else comes and goes, friends, family, love, happiness, but only the pain in constant. Sometimes it's the dull ache of loneliness, the throbbing, dark pulsing of a lonesome soul, sometimes the bitter, caustic sting, the tearing of flesh of the betrayal of one who you once trusted. Sometimes it reaches a furious crescendo in the blistering, roaring purgatory of guilt, sometimes a pain worse, it seems, then death itself, in the breaking of an innocent heart. Everything changes except pain.
Nothing is real except the pain.
Either way, depression seems like a cancer, sending it's dark, insistant tendrils through the very fabric of our life, until it permeates our very existance. I've added artwork of H.R. Giger, for those who enjoy it. I might get around to doing some thumbnails at some point, but I can't really be bothered at the moment, so you'll have to live with how it is for now. And if things pile up on top of it, it starts to show cracks. Until it's all gone.