It is difficult to explain the depression. It is not unwelcome; contrarily, it is cathartic. The intensity is addictive, and so few feelings of late beset me, of any manner or intensity, that the melancholy is heartily welcome. I am quite sure this state is diagnosible as manic depression, bipolar, or some such; yet, I am not so quick to address the issue, as the state is a euphoric release from the apathy, frustration, and callousness which have haunted me for nigh two years.

This is not to say I desire my situation to continue its decline. I should like few things more than to return to a stable income, surround myself with friends of like faith, and find a woman in whom to confide. But at present, the solace is to be found in silence, sadness, and tragic nostalgia.

Though, like any addiction, there is danger in morose musings. It is a tree branch, heavy laden with snow. The weight strains the branch ’til either the bough breaks, or the snow is shed in a cascade of white. The danger in mounting snow lies in the limberness of the branch, for each successive snowfall weakens the integrity of the tree.