Tripping Into the Crevice of Depression

Have you ever watched somebody slide into the crevice of depression,
through your pathetic attempts to keep them from those depths of despair?
Have you ever wished that you were not the only one in the surrounding wilds that day,
yet known that you were indeed the lone endeavourer to that region of their soul?

While it is the heart that guides you there, the heart is left behind in the forest somewhere.
And while your eyes can see the signs posted on the path that say "Abandon hope all ye who trudge past here,"
your unknown source of empathy takes you past them.
And when you arrive at the crevice that holds the depths of despair,
the slide has already begun for the lost soul down the slope that leads into this abyss of abjection.

But more is lost in the fissure than frivolity,
the sense of identity-- if it existed at all-- becomes as void as the light that once abounded.
And with the loss of one's personhood, comes the loss of purpose,
or more accurately, the loss of the ability to find one's own goals.
Because these things lie far from the depths of despair;
so abandon faith ye who enter there.

Swamps Without Answers: how keys are lost.

A handwritten letter is the most personal,
impersonalized form of communication.
Yet, meeting face-to-face bears no benefits, it seems.

Coffee is not enough, nor are comfortable chairs.
Greetings and conversation as warm as the beverage in your hands cannot fulfil the criteria.
Hours of conversation do not lead down the desired path,
though the path on which it leads is profoundly pleasant; simply ungratifying.

It takes a swamp, of all things.
It takes a highway, deserted by the inactivity of night; the crickets missing the memo.
A field is involved, studded with the dead and shortened stalks of the previous harvest.
There must be stars, and there must be wind, apparently.
All of these things lie upon the path that leads through the warm smiles,
and indeed there is no warmth there.

But let me tell you, one who reads, that there are not answers when the end is reached.
There are only memories, and lost keys.
And it is up to the traveller to cherish or despise;
to leave lost, or to go and find.

Gentlemanship...

... can be hard to stick to sometimes.