Its wierd to go through these things.
It's a dark cloud that descends over everything you do. All things seem connected by their insignificant significance. Everthing turns to crap in your fingers. You say the wrong things, think the wrong things, see the wrong things, and hear the wrong things.
Sometimes you just want to get drunk and forget everything; but I am far too much a pussy to follow this route. If only bukowski was here to advise me.
The flip side of all this is that as a whole I am far more creative when in the dumps than not. I can channel my energy into doing things that normally I wouldn't give two shits about. My stories (which are generally not bright rays of sunshine) get that extra umph to them and they are generally better.
Perhaps it is better to write and talk about these things and get them out of your system. Unfortunately the people you talk to don't understand and the writing just comes off as a plea for attention or woe is me story. Neither of which I can stand. I often wonder if those who candide themselves through life often live a simpler and better life. If perhaps I could give up what sign of intelligence that I think I posses to perhaps become a brainless pile of goo.
Then again there is something almost comforting in the numb pleasure of depression. It is a soothing rhythm of normality that you can fall into. Unfortunately it brings unhappiness and worry to those that surround you, so when they ask if you are ok you say, "Yes" when they ask what is wrong you say, "Nothing" You try to bring yourself out of it with other tasks that add value and worth to your existence, however the funny part of it all is that now everyones expectations are that you are going to be depressed so you almost feel bad when you have moments of being happy.
Oh well.
This is almost sure to be deleted later.
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