Rediscovering Meaning: Uncommon Approaches to Overcoming Depression and Existential Crisis

In the ultra-somber kingdom of Gloomvale lived Sir Edgar—a knight who strained every nerve to appear bold, yet only grew more sullen. By day, he trudged through the black corridors of his gloomy citadel; by night, he tried to banish his despair with a stern “no-sugar” diet. His crest—a hand clutching a sword that slices through a dark cloud of sorrow—looked like the emblem of some dreary fitness club.

To bring some joy into his life, Sir Edgar concocted such absurd ideas that his neighbors could hardly hold back their laughter behind their cloaks. One day, he switched to a diet of chitin flakes supposedly flavored with dragon scales (he swore it was the latest superfood). Another day, he announced at full volume that he was “powering up his inner abs” by cracking the most ill-timed jokes in the main square. Then, at midnight, he would dash around the courtyard in full armor, clanging like a hundred bells on a feverish test run, driving servants, ravens, and even the local dog—who fancied herself the ruler of all Gloomvale—utterly mad. Yet Edgar, staunch in his belief in his mysterious “mega-chest resilience,” stubbornly continued this marathon of cheer.

One afternoon, right at the peak of his outlandish pursuits, a wandering philosopher slipped into the courtyard, clutching a yellowed Viktor Frankl treatise under his arm. He advised the knight not to squash his melancholy as though it were a stubborn ketchup stain, but instead to unearth the reason behind its lingering presence. “Decipher the meaning of that ketchup blot,” the philosopher said, “and life won’t feel so bitter without its sweetness.” Sir Edgar merely shrugged in reply, though something in his gaze hinted he was more than a little intrigued.

That same evening, Sir Edgar tried laying down his sword and peering into his sadness without flinching. For hours he wandered the courtyard, bathed in moonlight, wondering just how long that shadow had made its home within him. From his perch in the tower, the philosopher watched in silence, nodding now and again whenever the knight paused to scribble a fresh thought. But the instant Edgar decided to truly “embrace” his grief, he discovered his chest plates had rusted solid—leaving him stuck in the courtyard, frozen in the stance of a “fearsome knight sorely lacking in WD-40.”

The situation seemed hopeless: the potions were gone, every jest was spent, and the armor wouldn’t budge. Then, all at once, Sir Edgar cried out, “No matter! At least I can breathe again!” and burst into such uproarious laughter that the fortress’s ancient locks creaked in shock, nearly fainting on the spot. The crows, utterly baffled, fell into a strange purring hush, and the air around them seemed to grow suddenly warmer.

In that moment, all understood that true freedom does not hide sorrow under lock and key, but rather gently embraces every trial, recognizing fresh beginnings in the heart of each grief. Sir Edgar, having steeped his rust-eaten armor in self-mockery, realized that every tear is nourishment for tomorrow’s delight. If one must rust, better to do it merrily—filling each crack with a quick-witted joke—than to be dragged into that suffocating chasm of gloom. A rusted knight, it turned out, was far happier than the cold, unfeeling iron he once wore.

At daybreak, after that thunderous laughter, subtle changes breezed through Glumvale. The crows cawed with a gentler note, the servants exchanged playful banter whenever they crossed paths, and the once-haughty dog dropped its regal glare, as if obeying some hidden cue. Content with these quiet shifts, the philosopher departed, still thumbing through Frankl’s book. Sir Edgar lingered, studied his coat of arms, and allowed a smile to surface, realizing he had not felt so alive in quite some time.