Mom: “So you said that you have been stressed out for the whole past year?”
Me: “That’s pretty much it.”
Mom: “It’s not being ‘stressed out’ anymore. You have been depressed.”

And I looked at her in bewilderment, partly disbelieving her sharp intuition.

I could only nod, sigh, and hope she would say another of her trademark: spontaneous one-line notes that often hit my mind at unexpected times.
But as usual, she does not speak any further, a wise move to suggest that it is entirely up to me to make my own way.

However, the way I’ve chosen remains to be a deadlock far from satisfying, let alone fulfilling my quench over certainties and some clarity issues.

It has been a few days after I came back from my hometown, and exactly within these few days, I have felt crippled.
I could not bring my mind forward to come up with any writing ideas, and reviewing films seems like an ancient penchant of mine long to be buried under a treasure chest. The plan I had constructed prior to my departure was brutally scraped out and butchered since my bag was stolen exactly ten days ago, barely reaching the second day I stepped my feet on this mind-puzzling city.

What I did not realize was how much impact the incident affected my life, until now.

The seemingly perfect mapped-out plans did not work out at all, and I am still stranded homeless and jobless in this city. My savings were gone along with the bag, and the precious notebook which had become my faithful companion for the past few months has been missing its real owner, without having any idea about its whereabout.
Each and every single day, I had to occupy myself with some made-up activities which still translate as the unproductive kind.

I hit my own rock bottom.

I have to come up alone, and the path up is too steep to climb.

Still, mom does not talk about it any further, and prefers to concentrate on her son gaining more weight.

Mom, I need a weighty life.