Vivaldi, Double Cello Concerto, the strings echo softly through my ears. I cannot honestly say what brings me to this place. I have not experienced a great loss, nor have I witness a horrific event in my childhood that's caused me to seek utter seclusion. I've come to enjoy listening to classical music in the dark by myself. Depression has not to always be the result of something, though if it were at least I could define it. In my case it's little more than a birth defect. The doctors tell me that my brain lacks the ability to produce serotonin at the proper levels. There's medication out there, in fact I'm staring at a bottle of Paroxotine right now, though I feel no inclination to take it; for reasons which I cannot explain. Peace. I love this song, the sound is so clear I can hear Beethoven's fingers tapping each individual key. A candle flickers and shadows dance across the room in rhythm with the song, and now I'm glad I paid so much for a set of headphones. Despite the music's hushed tone it's all I can hear, a faint and far away tapping of my fingers on the keyboard comes through in very few low spots of the song. Where was I? Ah yes, the birth defect; they tell me it's hereditary, passed down from my father's side. I cannot disagree with this since it does appear that all of the males on my father's side do suffer from the same, ailment, if you will. So what could it be? Besides the medical jargon I mean. I had a great childhood. My parents did divorce but us kids were never in the middle of it. We were all very well taken care of and never in need of anything. In fact it was rare that we were ever in want of anything either. I would not call myself a spoiled rich kid, however my parents were nothing if not stable. Random thoughts pass through me for no apparent reason. Why? Focus has always been an issue for me, though maybe that's a good thing. The music changes, and the violins of Pachobel Canon in D give me chills. The coffee, as well as the music is invigorating and I'm reminded well of a wedding I've never been to nor seen on TV. A snow white day, the purest of doves, a beautiful bride and a large wedding party. Champagne, flowers, cake; everyone happy, everyone smiling. Inside the ski lodge, the men's room floor, another suicide victim, he won't be found until after the ceremony. What a day that must have been. The scars on my forearm resemble what may well have been a dog bite, though spending my high school graduation in a "mental well-ness center" gives a painful reminder that I was never attacked by a canine. My cell phone vibrates, it's my wife, maybe I should go. Maybe that's all we need as purposeless depressants, a reason, a cause, a shoulder. But what of ourselves? Perhaps we should learn to live alone before involving others. In other words...