the fact that I am a member of the upper-middle class in a 1st world country isn’t enough to make me happy. we’re all miserable in our well fed, well shod, lives of convenience.
knowing all your problems and anxieties aren’t original, authentic, or worth a thing, somehow makes it worse.
i miss her till I shake, every day, but there’s no ordained point or moral in suffering, we just live and laugh and cry without meaning.
we can console ourselves with the belief that our suffering strengthens us for the happy days to come, but it’s all too easy to confuse a tidy hollywood ending with the drudgery and unwarranted self-importance of our mundane lives.
i can’t kill myself, i wonder if it’s cowardice.