Depression is like a dark well that you’ve slipped into. Your hands grab the walls hoping for a rock or tree root to hang onto. There is nothing but dirt. Dirt that fills underneath your nails. Dirt that falls into your eyes and mouth. Nothing but dirt.
You’re still falling. You kick your legs out and slow your descent. You look up hoping for hope but there is nothing but dirt. Where did the sun go? The sky? Lost to you now. Nothing but dirt.
You consider calling out for help but soon abandon the idea. The well is too far from anyone else. Why did you explore it by yourself? No one can hear you now. No one can see you now. There is nothing but dirt.
The well is deep and you have far to go before you reach the bottom. Your struggle seems pointless. There is nothing but the well now. The hole of inky blackness. Nothing but dirt.