2/24/09: This was written when I was very depressed. I caught myself hoping I could feel nothing, could stop feeling so much pain, and wanting to be removed from sadness. The moral is that your pain is still better than absolute nothing. Being depressed is better than not living at all.
What is that, man? What is the reason I still wear a smile? What is the reason I still act okay when my insides are spiderwebs and mold?
My face is fresh but my soul feels old.
Inside not cold, but like an attic on a bleary, rainy day. Stuffed with moisture, dust, and mediocrity.
Meaningless trinkets long forgotten.
The only light comes through cracks in closed shutters.
The only sound is rain pounding the gutters.
The place is the place of nothing; the sound of everything filling and flooding.
The water is grey and bland. You won't feel it. There is no feeling. You will only die. With oblivion, existence ceases. For now I recline on the floor of the attic, raindrops trickling through a hole onto my forehead, making me feel.
Can I hope for the rain to stop?
Oblivion waits for my meager spirit;