But depression is not a productive disease, it does not open doors or portals to other worlds; in fact, it suppresses and clogs even the most mundane crannies of human aspiration. When I am depressed, I have neither energy nor desire. In the morning, simply waking up seems to be a frivolous endeavour. The negotiations that used to take place between my conscious and subconscious mind grow calamitous and I struggle to exist, not, in fact, to live. Like Hamlet, I wonder “To die: to sleep;/No more; and by a sleep to say we end/The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks/That flesh is heir to”.