What? No really...I Was Listening. Go on...

No I wasn't. I wasn't listening at all. I was shamelessly sleeping here with my eyes absolutely wide open for the past eight hours of so.

Convincing aren't I? Feeling rather unrefreshed by my faux-napping however. Must do better job of convincing self. That may be platform for entirely new lease on life - working towards improved ability of convincing self of half-truths, tall-tales, and other assorted conflagrations, exaggerations and misinterpretations.

These are not the droids you are looking for.

You look like Jessica Alba - refreshed, toned, pert and just dripping with sex appeal. Always.

Snickerdoodles are the 5th basic food group.

Sleep is for the weak.

Jim Beam is the purveyor of clarity.

You need more clothes.

You are not self involved, you are just an unrecognized expert in self-flagellation and you are trying to share your wisdom with the world.

There is nothing that you would rather do than bill more hours. Clearly, your fantastic workschedule makes you the envy of every non-lawyer you know.

You make very astute and wise choices when it comes to men, and all that military stuff, mere coincidence.

Last, but not least (and really, most importantly and most seriously, above all else): At this very moment, and the next and the next, and the one after that and so on - You are okay. You are fine, you will be fine. No big deal.

I can be convincing if I try. If I keep it simple, avoid getting too elaborate. Eschewing the dangers of evasion and ruinous digression. Stay on message. You are okay. You are okay. You are okay.

Okay?

Article in NYT decrying the phenomena of "heroic melancholy" and idealization of depression as a creative ideal:

To this way of thinking, to oppose depression too completely is to be coarse and
reductionist -- to miss the inherent tragedy of the human condition. To be
depressed, even gravely, is to be in touch with what matters most in life, its
finitude and brevity, its absurdity and arbitrariness. To be depressed is to
occupy the role of rebel and social critic. Depression, in our culture, is what
tuberculosis was 100 years ago: illness that signifies refinement.

The author goes on:

How far does our jaundiced view reach? Surely the label ''disease'' does not
apply to the melancholic or depressive temperament? And of course, it does not.
People can be pessimistic and lethargic, brooding and cautious, without ever
falling ill in any way. But still, it seemed to me in my years of immersion that
depression casts a long shadow. Though I had never viewed it as pathology, even
Woody Allen-style neurosis had now been stripped of some of its charm -- of any
implicit claim, say, of superiority. The cachet attaching to tuberculosis
diminished as science clarified the cause of the illness, and as treatment
became first possible and then routine. Depression may follow the same path. As
it does, we may find that heroic melancholy is no more.

In time, I came to think of the van Gogh question in a different light, merging it with the
eradication question. What sort of art would be meaningful or moving in a
society free of depression? Boldness and humor -- broad or sly -- might gain in
status. Or not. A society that could guarantee the resilience of mind and brain
might favor operatic art and literature. Freedom from depression would make the
world safe for high neurotics, virtuosi of empathy, emotional bungee-jumpers. It
would make the world safe for van Gogh.

Depression is not a perspective. It is a disease. Resisting that claim, we may ask: Seeing cruelty, suffering and death -- shouldn't a person be depressed? There are circumstances, like the
Holocaust, in which depression might seem justified for every victim or
observer. Awareness of the ubiquity of horror is the modern condition, our
condition.

But then, depression is not universal, even in terrible times.

Though prone to mood disorder, the great Italian writer Primo Levi was not
depressed in his months at Auschwitz. I have treated a handful of patients who
survived horrors arising from war or political repression. They came to
depression years after enduring extreme privation. Typically, such a person will
say: ''I don't understand it. I went through -- '' and here he will name one of
the shameful events of our time. ''I lived through that, and in all those
months, I never felt this.'' This refers to the relentless bleakness of
depression, the self as hollow shell. To see the worst things a person can see
is one experience; to suffer mood disorder is another. It is depression -- and
not resistance to it or recovery from it -- that diminishes the self.

Beset by great evil, a person can be wise, observant and disillusioned and yet not
depressed. Resilience confers its own measure of insight. We should have no
trouble admiring what we do admire -- depth, complexity, aesthetic brilliance --
and standing foursquare against depression.

Hit the nail on the head. Bulls eye. You sunk my battleship.

He's right.

In every way.

An informative dissertation? An angry polemic?

No, a call to arms. Focus. Re-focus.