There is a misery in melancholy that is tormenting, hopeless, and unrelenting, like a tide that drags you under, no matter how you fight to breathe. It feels as though you are living a second life, a shadow-life where the sun does not rise, where the air is heavy with silence, and every road bends toward darkness. In that place, joy becomes a foreign tongue, and memory itself grows dim, as if the heart has been exiled from its own home.