I have an affinity for cold, forested areas, where I plan to reside later in life. For a long period of time I have been entrapped in the clasps of depression. I fluctuate between cursing my own existence and that of the world around me. The fact that I can t trust anyone isn t exactly helpful. I d like to be able to, but after continual letdowns by those of whom I ve had the displeasure to cross paths with, it seems inevitable.
Most people only serve to aggravate.
I can feel inspiration slip, as I desperately grasp for whatever scraps haven t diminished. I used to dream of a happy, successful life, whereas now I dream of a painless death. Sometimes, however, inspiration breaks through the barriers of hopelessness, enabling me to do things of my interest. I feel that maintaining it will help shape my ideas and maintain my interest for something, usefully allotting time that would otherwise be spent wallowing in filth. I also have hopes that others who feel similar will stumble across this and realize they re not alone.