Depressed Writer Novels & Stories

I’ve heard that name from her many times before, but this is the first time that she told me that that Serene is also schizophrenic. “Really? Ano nangyari sa kan’ya?” She shrugged. “She’s damn depressed and she can’t admit it to herself. You know, nagkapatong-patong yung bigat ng loob niya. She decided to give up on her life. And while she’s planning to kill herself, an imaginary friend who contradicts her thoughts was made.” She smiled. “I even bought her book, Her Tranquility. Can you believe that one of the reasons that she’s depressed is that she can’t write the way she writes before? For her, writing is like breathing. If she can’t write, she feels like suffocating.” She heaved a deep s

He added. I bit my lower lip as I take few little steps to follow him when he started walking again. “Why? What happened?” He shake his head. “I do not know either. I just woke up one day, realizing that I do not have the fuel to write again, to be poetic again. You know that feeling of being dazzled with figures slipping down into your system? It has been so long since the day I felt it but until now, I still can’t feel the same passion and I misses it damn much.”

He no longer had the energy to lift his spirits up. Thinking of the memories between them, he felt like his heart had been slashed by a knife. He did not have the energy to manage the company anymore. Every single day, he drank himself into oblivion, allowing the depression to take over his mind. Gradually, rumors about him becoming dispirited started to fester. Even the media was shocked. There were all kinds of assumptions.

It had been nearly two weeks since the woods, and I had been absolutely fucking miserable. I could barely motivate myself to go to work, let alone keep up with my usual workout routine. I was lucky if I could drag myself out of bed for a morning run. Food tasted even more bland than usual, colors, dull and gray. My panther was restless and depressed. We were falling apart.

Silas I've been down bad, worse than I ever imagined I could be. I'm stuck in it—a depressive spiral that keeps dragging me deeper and deeper. Days blur together, a haze of gray. I force myself through the motions of work, put on the mask everyone expects from me, but at the end of the day, I'm hollow and wrung out. By the time I drag myself into bed, I don't bother pretending anymore. I just let the silence swallow me whole.

⸻ Enough to create hope. Enough to create the Third Path. ⸻ 🌙 The Writer Understands The Writer stared at the visions. ✍️ ⸻ For the first time… He looked defeated. ⸻ Not angry. ⸻ Not frustrated. ⸻ Just tired. ⸻ Very tired. ⸻ “So that’s why.” ⸻ The mysterious figure nodded. ⸻ “Yes.” ⸻ The Writer laughed quietly. ⸻ A sad laugh. 💔

One of them was going to end up in trouble for this, and thinking about how I'm the one who caused it, I feel once again very depressed. I look at the papers right in front of me, my eyes glazing over as I find myself unable to read. The words seem to burn in my head, blurring my vision, so I shake it out and drop the documents on the table with a bang. I want to scream out loud, but I stop myself. I'm not going to let the people around my office think that I'm somehow mentally deficient. People shouldn't know that I'm not myself today, not at least until I make it home.

"This is where I come when the world gets too loud, when I need to remember there are still places where people think instead of just react." "You come here often?" I asked, grateful for the change in subject. "Every day," he admitted. "I'm a writer, or trying to be, and this place helps me think, helps me find the words when they won't come." "What do you write?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Stories about people who are lost," Amante said simply. "About people trying to find their way back to themselves. Depressing stuff, really, but someone has to write it."

I just wanted him to leave. "That's what I thought." That was all he wanted to hear, before marching his way out of the house. Shaking my head, I got up and retired to my room. Only continuing my creative fantasies could get me out of the sour mood my oh-so-great dad had put me in. With that, I opened my laptop and started tapping the keys, accelerating the production of dopamine in my body. Writing was therapy for me. The only thing that could bring me temporarily away from my little dispirited life, and the terrible people existing in it. Only God knows how I manage to put up with them.

[3rd Person’s POV] Katalina stared at the termination contract in her email. Her supervisor implied to fire her because her output as a writer isn’t clicking anymore. You told me writing was your passion. How come you keep on creating trash after trash?! Those were the words that echoed inside her head. A single tear fell from her eyes. No one understood her hardship. Or even appreciate her effort. She sighed and looked around. Katalina felt useless. Her forté long ago doesn’t align with journalism. But still, in the same field of writing information.