push on, depression

It's there you know, right behind a thin veil, waiting, wanting; haunting really, to be tapped into, to be let out in a ghostly mist, set to descend. And one would think, one would think that given the state of my current affiars, I would be drenched within it, this descending depression and yet I find myself content, unnervingly content, for while I feel stretched, between two coasts, and dried up, tanned, like a bovine hide I am still content, happy even, in my circumstances. Revelling in depression has formerly gotten me to no successes, only tear ridden poetry. Now I try to turn it on as this veil, this ghastly shroud has always been my greatest resource for creativity, for writing specifically. I am empty. I am empty? doubtful, doubtless.