What will I type? What message am I oddly eager to send, although once I begin typing I have to force myself to continue. This terrible apathy that I have acquired, where I care not when I see my mother rotting away, a wasted life, why do I feel the need to add one more silly post in the thousands that languish here already. In this curious journey of reaching another state of mind, I find myself hating my apathy, oh the irony. All that we, the youth at least, need is a sense of purpose. And if not that, then we would oh so gladly give up our freedom for someone to just forcibly make us do something, force me to get out of bed before 1 everyday, force me to go swim, to go write, to go do all that I might. Please someone come and take my independence away, I have no clue what to do with it other than rot and one day become my mother. Oh, I love her.
You, who is reading this, you will amount to nothing and I who types it, will amount to nothing as well, as shall anyone you have ever laid you eyes upon.
Reckless, that is the sole refuge. Thinking, the sole enemy.