it’s amazing how much we just want to be heard. I mean, we all harbour these everyday doubts which grow and latch onto our egos. Though it weighs us down it adds bulk. we naturally assume that because we feel incontent, unappreciated, depressed etc that we ARE, when all it takes is a spark of interest in something else to entirely dispel our unhappiness. Our frailty is matched only by our power/will.
and still as we stand in humanity’s adolescence, I can’t help but wonder why I’ve always felt like this, why I’m nothing special, none of us are, why some will devote their lives to studying others rather than themselves (psychiatrists) why some will devote their lives almost exclusively to themselves (suits) and why some – rather than participate in the rat race – would sooner sit and try to label the grotesque miscalculations indigenous to our species (like myself) I mean, how bitter can I be? how much can I know? I’m only fucking eighteen.