Melancholy sees the worst of things,—things as they may be, and not as they are. It looks upon a beautiful face, and sees but a grinning skull.

A low mood invents no facts; it chooses which possibilities to treat as certain. It looks at a good thing and sees the version that has already ended. The distortion convinces precisely because nothing in it is impossible; every face does age, every good stretch does end. What gets lost is the difference between what may happen and what is happening now.

When your reading of a situation is uniformly bleak, treat the uniformity as a symptom rather than clear sight. Ask what a steadier week would make of the same facts. If the grey does not lift, let someone you trust know rather than sitting in it alone.