"Which is what?" asked the psychiatrist.
"I feel good, I feel happy. Sometimes I think, hey, maybe the depression won't come back."
She looked at me, head tilted, pen poised over paper. She gave a wry smile that wasn't really a smile.
"It'll come back," she said.
The little girl had a pencil
and found that whatever she wrote about, she became
So she wrote about being brave
And being strong, steadfast, and true
She wrote about mysteries and adventures
Through foggy swampland and desolate forests
Over craggy mountaintops and wind-whipped deserts
Where she, the valiant heroine would press on
Despite threats to her mortality, to her body and soul
Nothing could harm her
For she was embodied with a magical power
That burned from within
And it could never be extinguished
Not with the wind from ten thousand mountains
And the torrents from ten thousand storms.