[ WP ] Dscribe depression in a contextless monologue .

I do n't know why I keep this silly old thing. My old, raggedy teddy-bear, that is. It's been broken for quite some time. I do n't know what it is, but the thing wo n't be fixed. I think the stitching is done wrong or something because every time I patch it up, another seam opens up, and more stuffing falls out. I try to gather it all up and put it back, but every time, a little bit is lost to the carpet, and ca n't be reclaimed. After many patches and repairs, not much stuffing remains, and my bear looks oddly lopsided and limp, with more stuffing in some parts than others. Looking at the small, brown bear, with buttons for eyes, now turned old, dirty, and frayed, a part of me wishes to give up the burden of caring for it. It is all too much work for such an old bear. One day, I decided to rid myself of this useless bear, once and for all. I really wanted to. It would have been so easy to let the bear simply fall from my grasp, into the bin, but as I stood there holding it's limp body, I was afraid. I was afraid of losing all of the work I had done on the bear, of wasting the countless hours of patching and stitching, and as I looked into the bear's lifeless button-eyes, I faltered. I took the little bear back to my room. Another hole had opened up at one of the seams. I did n't break out the sewing supplies. I did n't try to patch it up. I just took the teddy-bear, and set it high up on a shelf, never to be used, never to be touched, never to be repaired. It sits up on its shelf, slowly breaking at the seams, looking down on me with its cold, dead, button-eyes, but I do n't look back at it. I do n't look back.
