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This is the end of the road. The last milepost passed, the terminus of the journey. Last stop, everybody off.

This is the end. I’m done. I can’t handle it anymore. I’m finished. I cant…no, I won’t go on.

There is no physical change. Everything remains as it was. The sky is, the trees are, and time continues to be.

There is great internal shift, tectonics drastically changing the landscape of the mind. Pain, sorrow, discontent forcibly pushed beyond the horizon, to make way for new opportunity. The very foundation of being shifted, altered, changed.

This is the end.

This is the beginning.

It starts now.

…they came tumbling down.

Despite our efforts to protect, to gain comfort, and to rebuild, they came tumbling down.

Weeks of effort, built brick by brick, stone by stone, and filled mortar. The bulwark was build through tears, sweat, hard-work, and agony, all in the name of the greater good – comfort, security, peace. A chance to move on. A chance to grow. A chance to be happy.

All undone with a whisper. Undone with a song. Undone with a mere question. Hope springs in response to the sound, but that hope is misguided. That hope is the prelude to the sound of the warhorn. That hope only brings defeat.

And the walls came tumbling down.

And with it came silence. As quickly as the whisper came, as swiftly as the melody rang, as fast as the question mark was dotted, it was gone. Nothing to answer the hope. No hand extended. No embrace. No word of greeting.

Only silence.

So we sit, surrounded by dust. By brick, by rock, by crumbled mortar. By silence. Defeated, broken, alone.

Then we pick up that first brick, and place it atop another. And another. And another. We begin to rebuild.

So the cycle continues. Perhaps next time will be different. Perhaps the whisper will grow louder. Perhaps the song will grow, perhaps the question will be answered.

Perhaps the walls will only come tumbling down again.

It feels like the distant past, though only a little over a year. The echoes of a Little Bird, propped on my shoulder, singing and chirping happily, asking a question they already knew the answer to.

“Do you loooove me?” chirped a little bird.

The answer was always an unquestioned, enthusiastic yes, and one which I would sing from the mountaintops, into the valleys for all to hear.

“Reeaaallly?”

The echo of the question reverberates throughout my heart, my soul, my being. Though not necessarily attached to the Little Bird, and though the tone has changed (though it remains outstretched), the question remains the same.

“Do you love me?”

The source of the question is easy. No longer a Little Bird, whom has since departed, but myself. Inner being, self, the hopeful, but still unsure voice-within-a-person.

The answer, however, is difficult to give. Often, conscious thought tries to side-step the conversation: deflecting, dodging, and distracting with words, thoughts, and actions, in an attempt to avoid answering.

It’s an important question, and one that deserves an answer if progress is going to be made.

The echoes return periodically.

“Do you love me?”

I think I’m finally ready to to give an answer. So, Self, here it is.

The answer is not an enthusiastic, unquestioning “Yes!” It is not a resounding “No!” filled with bile, anger, and hate.

The answer is a quiet, meek “I’m not sure.”

“But I want to.”

Searches yield all kinds of results for someone dealing with depression and sadness.

• “Keep your chin up.”
• “Meditate. Nourish your soul.”
• “Work out – Nourish your body.”
• “Find a hobby and stick with it.”
• “Hang out with people and be social.”
• “Get outside and do things.”
• “Focus on you. The rest will come.”

The list goes on.

Here I said, looking back at the things I’ve tried to rectify the situation. A half-finished pair of coloring books. A daily regimen of working out and meditating. A musical instrument (well, when the shop finally gets it back to me). Time spent outside, exploring, hiking, enjoying nature, and doing what I can to make myself happy. It feels like none of it has worked. None of it has helped.

The missing element is the social aspect, and the source of when I’m down. No matter what I do, no matter how I look at it, I am alone. Alone on my hikes. Alone on my rides. Alone in my apartment. Alone walking through town. Alone.

It’s not for a lack of trying. I’ve made plans with people to hang out. Inevitably, they fall through. I’ve been abandoned by friends and (now former) partners left and right, seemingly cast aside without a second thought. Excuses are made. Promises for the future are made. The word ‘busy’ is repeated like a mantra.

Here I sit. Alone. The last time I spent with someone other than at work for more than 15 minutes? Early February, I think.

When is it alright to accept defeat? When is it alright to accept that my social circle not only has collapsed, but is non-existent? When is it alright to say “That’s fine. It doesn’t matter anymore.” When is it alright to say “I give up?”

Because I’m dangerously close, except I don’t know how to. The idea of giving up seems like a fantasy, the release I need to help myself, the greener patch across the fence, though I know it isn’t, and is probably much worse.

I put an inspirational quote on my whiteboard today, directly above my computer to help keep me motivated, to help keep my spirits up. In the back of my mind, I think it’s a farce, just another attempt to distract.

Do I sit and write all of this to make others feel bad? Is this an attempt for me to wave my arms and scream for attention to those whom I felt have “wronged” (for lack of a better term) me?

No.

This is my outlet. This is my way of saying “God damn it, I’m trying to not give up.What I’ve tried hasn’t worked. God damn it, I need help. ”

Except the answer seems to always be the same.

Silence.

He opened his eyes, waking from a peaceful, uneventful slumber. As he did, something seemed different…brighter. Warmer.

Though barely open, his eyes closed again, but the brightness remained.  Bringing both of his hands to his eyes, he did his best to rub the sleepiness from them, while propping himself up on the cool grass which he had dozed upon.

His eyes opened wider, and he looked up. Just above the mist, he could see an orb of fire in the sky. It seemed like forever since he had seen it last, but it was instantly recognizable, the warmth unmistakable.

The sun was returning, and threatening to burn off the accursed fog.

He stumbled over an unseen rock in the path. Head over heels, he tumbled down a decline, rolling over grass, dirt, and granite. Down he went, for what seemed like forever until, at last, he came to rest.

He felt bruised and battered, shaken and confused. Worse, he opened his eyes only to see that the fog had become thicker down here – he could barely see his hand twelve inches in front of his face. The air was silent, still, stagnant. Closing his eyes, he did his best to take a deep, calming breath to collect himself, to convince himself not to give up, for his morale had dropped as his altitude had. ‘The road will climb again,’ he thought, trying to reassure himself. ‘The fog will thin again, as it has before.’

Exhale. Wait. Inhale. Hold. Slowly, gingerly, he sat up on the cold ground beneath him, repeating that mantra over and again. In the back of his mind, however, a nagging thought poked and prodded him – the alternative to what he told himself could be just as likely – the road could continue downward. The fog could thicken.

He breathed deep again, trying to black that possibility out.

Night fell, as it often does. As the light gradually dimmed towards darkness, he noticed that the mist had thinned a little bit. The music he had so enjoyed recently, which sent his spirit soaring, had diminished into just an echo – faint, but present.

Night fell, and he laid down on a damp patch of grass to rest, tired from his travels through this damned mist. He soon drifted off on the cool sward into a soft slumber.

He dreamt. He dreamt of the music. He dreamt of the bright blue sky just out of his reach, of the open road before him. Happiness. Vision. Contentment.

He dreamt of warmth. It wasn’t that he was cold – though the bedding he rested on did have a bit of a chill to it – but he wasn’t warm. He dreamt of the source of the warmth – a companion of many faces he recognized, yet faceless, with arms outstretched.  Then with arms wrapped around him, enveloping him in it’s embrace. Nurturing. Protective. Encouraging. He dreamt of the transfer and sharing of energy, the warmth freely given and taken between the two, in a wonderful symbiotic relationship.

He dreamt he was full, overflowing. He felt he was beaming and radiant. Powerful, unstoppable. More than he could ever be on his own.

The cool breeze stirred him from the dream, waking him slowly from his slumber. As he woke, he noticed he didn’t feel warm anymore.

But he didn’t feel cold.

It began with a murmur, a distant echo. He wasn’t quite sure what it was.

He opened his eyes, searching for the source of the hushed sound, but all that lay before him was the fog. As of late, it was always the fog. ‘A figment.’ he thought. ‘A ghost. A memory.” His eyes closed again – the only way to shut the fog out.

A murmur, a morsel of a sound, this time louder came. Small as it was, it shattered the silence that surrounded him. It was slowly joined, one-by-one, with other sounds: the ruffle of grass swaying in the wind; the quiet, serene babble of a brook; the soft, playful chatter of little forest creatures; footsteps of people; and that soft, excited sound he recalled so warmly. Though all distant, they were there. Unmistakably present. Real.

Opening his eyes again, he spun around, the fog swirling and eddying with his rapid movement. Where was this symphony coming from? He wanted so desperately to see it’s orchestra, to join in, to be part of something bigger than himself again. In the fog, he was but one instrument, and he wanted more. He needed more.

He thought he saw figures in the mist, their movements calculated and unmistakable. But as quickly as they appeared, they vanished. But the music…the music stayed. The music played on.

As the figures were lost, loneliness washed over him as if poured from a bucket to drench his soul. This time, however, it was different. Tempered. Where previously it would have been ice cold, this time it was moderate…warmer.

He felt lonely. But he knew he was not alone.

For the moment, it made the fog almost tolerable. It even brought a hint of a smile to his lips, cheeks, and eyes.

He wasn’t alone.

He wept.

It was not the first time in the past few months, nor, he knew, would it be the last. Still, it was a rare-enough occurrence for him – not because he felt there was any shame in tears, for he saw no shame in emotion – but because he had always tried to cast aside sadness.

Not today. Today, he sat on a metal chair, backside on the lone cushion it offered. He was bent over, hands holding up his head, fingers tightly wound through his curly brown hair. He didn’t weep in sobs, but only in the occasional tear falling from the corner of his eye, running down his cheek, to be lost in his coarse beard.

It hadn’t been any one event or thought which caused him to give in to this feeling, to refuse to push away sadness. No, it was a multitude of feelings and thoughts which raced through his mind and his being, which had caused him to buckle.

Loneliness. Loss. Rejection. Emptiness. Numbness.

They had surrounded him, as of late, ganging up on him in two’s and three’s over the last few months. Today, though, today they all came at him at once, and it was overwhelming.

Another tear fell, lost among the forest grown on his cheek. It tickled as it moved through – more an irritation than something that would cause a smile. As he sat, a wave of numbness washed over him. As the wave came crashing down, he idly wondered how such a feeling – a feeling which by definition, was a loss of feeling – could cause so much strife and hurt as it did. An interesting thought, quickly lost in the surge of the emotion, which seemed to linger for a few moments longer than he would have liked.

He knew this would pass – it very well couldn’t go on in perpetuity. Finally, the wave subsided, and his mind wandered to warmer times – embraces of loved ones, smiles, laughter, the caresses of a lover – time he knew would come again…

…but it felt a lifetime since happiness reigned so, and seemed a lifetime more before it would do so again. Loneliness, Loss, and Rejection approached, each from their own side, and closed in fast. Emptiness and Numbness quickly followed, as they often did.

Another tear fell. His fingers tightened on his curls. He knew he was overwhelmed. Overcome. Beaten. Broken.

He also knew he would survive to see the sun again. Tears would dry. Smiles would grow. Friends would come to bolster his spirits. Yes, it would take some work, but a large part of that work was just to hold on for a little longer.

‘Patience….’ he thought. ‘Just hold on. You can do it. Just a little longer.’

He followed the path his choices had taken him on. At times, he stood on the mountaintop, able to survey and plan. Other times, he found himself in a dense forest, unable to see the next bend in the path.
In hindsight, the last turn was a mistake – a rash error which once taken, he could not backtrack to. It was one in a recent series of errors, misjudgements, and in his opinion, poor luck.Yet the road went on, and onward he traveled towards a destination both known in name, yet unknown in experience.

As he approached yet another crossroads – another choice – the morning fog began to descend, shrouding any idea of the potential results of the upcoming choice would be. Which would be worth it? Easiest? Roughest? Would one lead to a pre-mature end of the path, or was there no real difference, with the paths leading to a joining further down? Fate could be like that.

He stopped at the intersection, and closed his eyes. He recalled the advice his previous travel companions had offered, and he idly wondered where they were on their own paths, if they were well, and if their paths would join again.

He took a deep breath of the cool, moist air. Left? Right? Did it matter?
He felt lost – he had for a long time. A slow exhale caused the mist to swirl near his mouth. Left? Right?

Or wait? Surely the fog would lift eventually. Left? Right? Wait?
Another deep, moist breath. He mulled over the idea of this third possibility, while the voices of his former companions echoed through the hallways in the back of his mind.

Left? Right? Continue the journey, or wait? Was he patient enough to wait for this unknown amount of time? He felt as if he had waited a very long time already…but he certainly wasn’t in a rush to reach his ultimate destination.

Left? Right? Wait? He mulled it over further, letting out another slow, restrained exhale into the mist…