Usual Suspect

It’s not exactly depression. I’d say it’s closer to a neighbour or cousin of depression. Maybe not even that close. Actually, it’s a completely different but kinda similar thing. Like sitting on the Skytrain and your thighs are pressed up against the thighs of the people sitting beside you––technically you’re connected but it doesn’t mean you’re the same. Yeah, that’s more like it. I try to stay away from that feeling the best I can but sometimes I let my guard down, you know, like maybe I nish work early and I reward myself with one. But it was a really good day so I have another. Then another, until I’m creating excuses. Justifying my gluttony––“oh, it’s too late to call your sick Grandmother now anyways”––until I’ve watched the entire season. Then the following days are more of the same until life turns into a withering spiral of regret. I lead myself to believe that I’m gathering creative inspiration, and maybe in some universe watching seven-hours of Kevin Spacey spit a southern drawl can do that, but not this one––no. I know what that feeling is now. It’s shame.

Portrait by Katie So for #POBEshow 2015