Each emotion has its own moral perspective, and gerund that I am, emoting means winning, then failing, at cosmodicizing (i.e. “justifying the overall positive moral value of the cosmos). Depression, though not exactly an emotion, but a state of an emotional life, binds one to a moral perspective yoked to a craving for cosmodicy, while in the same sigh, negating the plausibility of any cosmodicy.
Anti-natalism, pessimism, and other such theories on the axiological dark side, become almost truistic from this perspective. As Tina Sonego said, quoted in The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon, “Depression is a search for invalidation” (p. 241). That search often looks as such: What is good? Not earth, for its horrors. Not life, for its horrors. Not anything, as each thing is tied to the metaphysical ground of all these horrors, or each thing is a necessary, actual, and witless booster in the “interdependent origination” of all these horrors.
Paradoxically inspired by my depressive stretches, I’ve disdained consciousness through the humor, sour humor, of Beircean definitions; my favorite of mine: “Consciousness, n. That part of the human automaton evolved to hold in flatulence. Absent in sleep.” Escitalopram (20mg) has unburdened me of the worst of my low tides. Before that, I had little easing. I had unreliable mantras; their gist was “This depression, this negation of all, will someday pass.” That was my naked cogito ergo sum of hope, the one tooth-skin-thin indubitable hope.