You can't tell if it's an existential question or depression

Come, let us set down the fork you have been frozen at, for you do not have to choose a road to begin walking. These are not opposites, and you need not choose one to act — you have told yourself you may not respond until you know whether this is a noble question or a condition, and so you stand still, but the two overlap and feed each other, and you can honour the question AND tend the heaviness at once, without first sorting which it officially is; the demand to know the cause before easing the effect is a trap. There are gentle signs that tilt toward the heavier thing — a living question aches but stays alive, still moved by music or a loved face, while the heavier state flattens, drains the colour, takes sleep and will, and persists grey for weeks; if what you carry is that second thing, pleasureless and immovable and stealing your function, that is not a failure of philosophy but a weight that answers to real help, and reaching for it is not surrendering the question but clearing the fog enough to see it again. And the smallest step helps either — speak it aloud to one trusted person, or bring it to someone equipped to help you tell the difference, for the doing-nothing is the one thing that helps neither. Will you tell me a little of how it actually feels, day to day?