Today, an overwhelming and profound wave of melancholy has utterly washed over me, an oppressive heaviness in my spirit that I find myself utterly unable to pinpoint to a single event. It's a feeling that wasn't a companion when I first woke—the morning offered a brief, fragile peace—but it has crept in stealthily, intensifying hour by hour, settling into a deep, pervasive gloom. I have been meticulous in adhering to my self-care regimen, ensuring I took my necessary medication precisely on schedule, as a fortress against such emotional sieges. Yet, despite this discipline, my entire emotional landscape feels profoundly unbalanced, listing dangerously under an invisible, unbearable weight. I suspect, with a certainty that settles like a cold, hard stone deep in the pit of my gut, that this debilitating feeling is intimately and agonizingly tied to the agonizing, unyielding reality of my life's work: my books. For ten long, solitary years, I have poured the very essen...
