I tried my hand at silkscreen and it was a failure to the nth degree, a blob of ink on unsuitable fabric, a lesson and a metaphor, still lying on my floor because I haven't bothered to pick it up. Dead ends and broken hearts; heavy ceilings, hung too low. Betwixt and between, half in and half out: Are you afraid you'll get it or afraid you won't?
Dishes in the sink, that sort of thing.
But I'm ok, is the gist. I know what depression is and that isn't what I've got. What I've got is a question mark. What I've got is a darkness, turning into light. What I've got is a precipice and I'm standing at the edge, wondering if I should jump, back away, or fly.