The content sad shadow

In the quiet corners of this room, where sunlight dares not linger, a shadow makes its home. It wraps around the walls, its presence thick with whispers, echoing my name— a haunting refrain that drapes itself over the fabric of my thoughts. I rise to leave, the door creaks open, but the air lingers heavy with the weight of memories, old ghosts that dance in the corners of my mind, reminding me of the shadow we call Depression. Why is it so content, I ask the silence, this shadow that doesn’t leave even when I step into daylight? It clings like a second skin, its sadness woven, a tapestry of lost dreams and fading hopes. I try to shake it off, to breathe in the fresh air, but the shadow follows, a quiet companion that sighs with me, mimicking the ache that resides in the heart. And so I sit, where the sadness seeps through the cracks, the walls holding tight to the echoes of a past that feels like a shroud, and wonder, in vain, why this tired shadow finds peace in my despair, this content sadness, the steadfast companion of my solitude.