Depression has no sense of time. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, violently urging you to dig through the photo album of your memories. Mourning is a special kind of depression, dragging you through every ounce of regret and remorse stored up in your soul, replaying all the laughs and sighs you’ll never hear again. Sometimes it’s a bittersweet sadness, others, it’s a crushing weight on your chest as you lie there, trying desperately to think of something else. It rears its head when it pleases, paying no mind to timeliness. Not that there’s ever really a good time to be enveloped in its embrace. Death is not the curse of Adam; living on, feeling the ache of loss and heartbreak long after the graves grow grass…that’s the real curse of mankind. The tragedy is not that we die; it’s that we must keep on living, grasping so tightly to those which we hold dear, beyond the days when they walk alongside us, until the day we realize we can’t remember what their voices sounded like…even in our dreams.