The thing about being miserable is, no matter what little thing it was that sent me to my own mind's darkness, all the things that cause me unhappiness come flowing around me. My demons, my painful memories, my failings; they all gaurd my mental dungeon and weigh down upon my chest like lead. These anguishes don't care which misery opened the door, they just flow through in an unending wave until I feel drowned in my own woe. Pulsing with a perverse life all their own, they slowly smother mine. The thick blackness crushes the thoughts of light, and any semblance of happiness. I know the memories are there, bursting with warmth, but the freezing gloom the icy wretchedness and heartache can't be melted with long ago visions residing my mind's eye. Maybe the warmth of the present could melt the glacial mental tomb. Maybe it would, but who would know? When so deeply sunk in the mire of pain that even warm memories bring no comfort it's not likely I have the strength or the incline to reach out to some one. Furthermore, if out of my dungeon I did manage to reach out and let some one know my pain, and they make their offer, I could never accept, no matter how much I need to be comforted, even held. It's not in my nature to accept that help, and not in they're range of empathetic vision to realize that even when I claim soundness I have never felt so low and alone. My own fault, of course, but why doesn't any one ever see the forest despite the trees.