I’m not a serious person at all. The only time I am serious is in writing. I don’t understand how everyone can live knowing all their happiness is a delusion. It’s impossible for me. Funny how everyone tries to be something, something they think important, when it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you die today or in forty years, because some day everything will parish and it will be as if the human race, and everything else, never had even existed.
I’ve lost just about everything to depression. All my friends hate me because they don’t understand…I used to play the piano and violin and draw and paint and now…I just sit around waiting for nothing. My grades have dropped a lot too. I’m surprised I’m still alive though. I wrote a suicide note, I have the pills it takes, now it’s only a matter of time.
I find myself spending virtually all my time thinking, contemplating how meaningless everything is, and what the world will be like after I am gone (and it seems much better without than with me.)