thoughts

Confessions of a Depressed Failure

by

Daulton Dickey.

Karl Persson

I’m depressed. I don’t want to get out of bed. When I do, I sometimes have to persuade myself that life’s worth living. I have a wife and kids—they’re also central to my internal arguments.

I am a failure. Every month is a struggle to scrape enough money to pay the bills, and it gets harder every single month. I’m a failure as a writer and as an artist. No one reads me and no one cares what I have to say. I’m a failure as a husband, a father, a son, and a brother. I ignore my family and I’m not sure why. I just don’t want to interact with people on some days. On the flip side to this, I want to interact with everyone on other days, but almost everyone—with the exception of my family—dismisses or ignores me. I try to reach out to talk to people, most ignore me, and this fires me into a spiral of self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness. On most days, I feel like an unknown or unwanted person. I’m persona non grata personified. (more…)

Two Short Pieces About Writing

by
Daulton Dickey.

1.

—Say, what do you do?

—I’m not sure, sir.

—Whatta ya mean you’re not sure? How old are you son?

—Thirteen I reckon.

—You reckon?

—I ain’t much for learning.

—Learning’s one thing. Not knowing your age is a different matter entirely. Where are

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Adrian Cherry

your parents?

 

—At home.

—And what do they do?

—Stuff I guess.

—What kind of “stuff”?

—The kind of stuff where they don’t make much money.

—Is that what you want to do, then? Grow up to be poor?

—Ain’t got no choice, I guess.

—We always have a choice, son. (more…)

Morning Rituals, Meat Machines, and Tragedy in Vegas

by
Daulton Dickey.

I woke in a void, empty. The room appeared as a mirage: both there and not there. Stumbling across the room to get dressed, then sneaking downstairs and closing the door behind me, certain not to wake my wife and baby, I floated in a state devoid of thought. A machine running on autopilot. Our dog stood in his kennel, whimpering. I let him out and followed him into the kitchen and opened the backdoor to let him out. He ran, tail wagging. After pushing past the cats in the bathroom doorway, I took a leak and brushed my hair and put on deodorant. Then I ambled into the kitchen and kneeled in front of the oven—after turning on the exhaust vent overhead—and lit a cigarette.

I turned on my phone and checked the news: a slaughter in Las Vegas. More than fifty dead. As many as five hundred wounded. The emptiness inside expanded, consumed me. Neurotransmitters flooded my brain. Chaos. Depression. Thoughts attempted to rise but nothing appeared. I pictured the dead and wounded, blood filling the streets, and my depression deepened.

What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? We’re meat feeding on chemicals, motivated by chemicals, until these organic machines stop. Then we cease to experience anything. The universe, as far as we’re concerned, blinks out of existence the moment we no longer perceive, think, feel, experience. We’re meat machines fueled by desire, without objectives—desire, for us, acts as both the means and the end. But the chemicals permeating this meat persuades us we’re somehow only incidentally meat. We’re something greater, some say, far great. Not animals. Special. (more…)