Posthuman Blues

I've spent the last couple days flattened by depression. Fortunately I worked up the nerve to get out this evening and suffer the spectacle of weekend suburbia -- which can be endured provided I envision myself as a tourist with no real emotional stake in my surroundings. Playing the tourist role isn't hard; I've always felt a bit alien. That's why I like airports and hotels: They're transitional zones that actively require you to transform into an emotional nomad.

Barring a life on the road -- which simply isn't practical, or I'd do it -- the best I can do is try to attune myself to the unfettered flow of my own mind, becoming a sort of vagrant in the process.

I've inevitably begun wondering if there's some sort of Darwinian utility to be scavenged from depressive states. Neurologists have begun to wonder if autism and sociopathy are adaptations instead of illnesses; why not depression?