I wore my cloak of depression to ward myself from a cruel and lonely world. The thick wool stank of sour milk or sulfur, depending on which side you stood. It had been ten long years since I had donned the cloak and it was still as strong and durable as the day I had earned it.

Between the stench buried deep within the fibers of the cloak and its outer scratchiness, people began to shy away from me. I guess it could have something to do with the cloak’s outward appearance too. Few people like a Grim Reaper lurking around their bright colored balloons or watching over their children.

Still, it wasn’t perfect. Loneliness penetrated the deep folds of the cloak from time to time like a stabbing wind. I never knew what to do during those times. Often paralyzed by indecision I would do nothing except wrap my cloak tighter around me until the feeling passed.

Today was different. I felt, more than heard, a whisper calling my name and for the first time in ten years I pushed the hood down to experience the world.