Depression is the soul-eater. It is the formless shape that settles on the back and clutches the shoulders, weighs you down, gets heavier and heavier and heavier and clutches tighter and tighter and tighter. Depression encircles, encases, encapsulates brain. Pushes words thoughts feelings inward. Allows not expression, escape. Throws sand in the eyes, calls down the mantle listlessness and sleep—some times to assuage hopelessness, deaden frustration. Some times to escape to null world of blank black nothingness. Some times to taunt. Taunt with dreams of beauties, dreams of horrors. To resist to-morrow.
You think depression to be wellspring of your creativity, motivator whence rococo sky-castle fecundity when relenting. You fear banishing demon depression will drive also flying angel fancy from your dominion. You suspect—you believe—angel takes wing, flies the higher for the confinement.
It is a lie. A lie depression whispers constantly, continuously. A lie depression tells to subvert banishment.
Angel and Demon are siblings, 'tis true. Issued from the same loins of inner self, collective self, universal self, lifeforce self. Interdependent twins they are not. Sever them, separate them, split them asunder. Drive one from your door; the other, unfettered, flourishes. Banish Angel and triumphant Demon drains and drags until you are inhaled by pit, by grave. Banish Demon and Angel soars, Angel cavorts, Angel embellishes, Angel … smiles.
It is yours to choose.