Depression is a prison

FIRST INMATE: Depression is a prison. I have been sentenced to life for a hate crime. The crime of self hatred. I am a prisoner of conscience. For I have taken a principled stance in a society which has become blinded to the truth. I was captured at the prime of my youth by the devils own thought police. I was sentenced at the High Court of Self Love. Which is just a nice name for arrogance.

I live out my days, carrying out my chores shackled to a most dreadful of cell mates, my inner voice, my demon.
Sometimes I have visitors, but I usually end up turning them away, not because I don't like them, but out of compassion. Why should they have to endure the misery of my company as I have to. I have escaped many times. But eventually I end up turning myself in. What's the point in taking up a new identity for the sake of a hopeless lie.

The prison of depression has two very big open round windows and is situated right in the heart, of a very busy city. Some say that is so that the inmates can ever feel the torment of incarceration. It would be far more compassionate to hide away the beauties and joys that have been denied. But for the sick society in which this prison is built, the law states that punishment must be compounded by humiliation. In fact in this prison though the windows have shutters they are hardly ever used and no one here can ever sleep very much.

As for the overlord of this city of my soul. He was once a good man and a friend. That was before he became a slave to the powerful nobles of the tribes of passion and pride. As the city grew older and richer so too their evil whispers turned to sweet melodies and enchanting song. Thus the child like innocence which governed my subconscious became sweet poisoned. This is how the discord started in this once peaceful land. I tried to reason with him but he knows nothing more than the memory of pleasure or pain. And though reason be the stronger of the two in proof, passions be the more powerful in controlling the will of the constituents.

Thus was born the enmity between reason and passion, conscious and sub-conscious. Mentality and disposition. This is how this once vibrant civilisation fell into ruins, at the hands of the usurper. For without reason as its master, passions are nothing but lost and lonely sheep. And reason without passion is nothing but false hope. So by enslaving his master, passion has even paralysed his ability to fulfil his own dreams.

SECOND INMATE: Fie on you old fool. Neither did we imprison you nor do we shackle you to that dear friend of yours. Yours is your own doing. Where you led we followed, though it was not always to our desire, but we trusted. For our own good you said and we merrily put all the resources of the city in your hands. Nothing herein happens without your command except the occasional act of defence. Without the master these slaves have nothing to do but act according to his habit. And they have grown weary. Abandoned, while you live out your sadistic fantasy in your ivory tower, well protected by us. Talking, constantly talking to that sick demon friend of yours. Taking his counsel I dare say.  And for what. No good comes out of it except that you cut yourself off even from those you truly love you. They say isolation is a blend of cowardice and despair. What do you have to be afraid of while your armies stand strong and ready to execute your order. How can you loose hope after getting everything you ever hoped for?

Yes, the city lays in ruin. The mood is foul, moral diminished. The wealth is stored up but not used, neither for our upkeep nor our well being or development. Why have you abandoned us in this way? You are the king without heir apparent. We are flesh and bone and we demand our rights.  

THIRD INMATE: I am the demon, so called. The slinking whisperer, some say. Anyhow, observe how simple it is to make mockery of men's state of affairs and affairs of state. The trick, you see, is to make the wrong fair seeming to those on earth. To make him see his strength as arrogance and weakness as humility. To see his wealth as vanity and poverty as piety. And if he does already then simply reverse the formula.  

Fie on you all, I will make ingrates of you both.