Inexplicable Melancholy

My brother left a book on the kitchen table this morning, which I leafed through as I ate breakfast. It was an anthology of short comics on the subject of "Flight," whether literal or metaphorical.

The book included one piece by Michel Gagné (http://www.gagneint.com/), one of my favorite comic book artists. It was a simple, sweet piece of pantomime, done in Gagné's unique style of alien whimsy. It was, saccharine as it may be of me to say, an uplifting story. It instilled in me a strong sense of serenity.

By the time I had reached work, no more than fifteen minutes later, this subtle joy had evaporated. In its place awoke an awful feeling of deepest melancholy which persisted all day, and is lifting only now, as I write this entry. It was as inscrutable as it was mysterious and all-consuming. In the space of a quarter hour, my very soul had been brought low.

I cannot fathom the cause any more than I can plumb the depths. I had a pleasant weekend. I have a good work schedule this week. In a few days I will be free of several old debts. I have a beautiful new model tank arriving in the mail soon. I met with friends Saturday and had a lovely time. Despite everything going swimmingly, I felt as though an inescapable doom hovered over me.

There are a number of catalysts to which I might attribute this sudden and terrible bleakness, some circumstantial, others deeper afflictions of mind and soul. Of these, the most powerful and persistent is loneliness. I've often wished for romantic companionship, that strange and subtle bond which so occupies the obsessions of mankind. The damnable lusts of this accursed flesh (and, God help me! This corrupted mind) compound the sincere yearning of my soul. Neither appeal to God nor any earthly action I employ bear fruit. And my mind, aloof and cruel, mocks me. Fool! Weak fool!

This terrible loneliness takes other forms as well. All things might I bear with stoic satisfaction if given but a single stalwart ally upon whom to lean. My various friends and acquaintances are all laudable people, but occupy the camps of the foes of God. There can be no true bond with those who hate, with violent passion, that which I love. I am ever grateful for their companionship, but the divide between us is the deepest than can be - an absolute division of the soul. How I long for a David to my Johnathan!

Prone as I am to these sudden depressions, they tend to be fleeting. A few hours, a few days at most, and my mind reasserts itself. All continues. Now, however, even in retrospect, the blackness which overcame me was unlike any other. The powers of Hell railed against me, of this I am certain. God have mercy! My selfishness is my undoing.