It's a physical presence I feel,
Like an Ouroboros wrapped around my heart
Consuming one instant my will to go on,
The next my ability to find it.

It's a persistent contagion of the mind,
An incessant listlessness pervaded with
A nameless sorrow, like a permanent crash
Accompanied by a nonexistent high.

It's the realization that my plans,
Though successful, have simply mutated
Into different forms, skipping the celebration
And going directly to the morning after.

It's the fact that feeling like doing nothing
Can only be countered by doing something great,
That ennui feeds on itself and on rest,
Only cowering in fear when purpose is found.

It's the one-two punch of norepinephrine
And serotonin, the lack of energy followed
By the need to throw off an oppression.
Depression leaves an imprint on the subconscious.