Face in Full

Jesus I hate days where death gets in my head. Truth is, down in my core, I have never found any purpose to life. It all just seems like a great big waste and if I really let myself think about it a compulsive desire for death consumes me. I could sit here and take you through my existential dilemma, I could tell you all about the utter pointlessness of a life born of nothing but a hodge podge of organic materials. I could tell you about the utter uselessness of being like Gandhi or Charles Bronson, I could tell you that the president is a fool for taking responsibility for so many us, and we are all slackers for not achieving our childhood dream.

You know it's only the pursuit of my childhood dream that keeps me alive. I pursue writing. And yet I don't pursue it either. Maybe when I finally get the nerve to try selling something I've written I'll move away from the dark depressive days that are all the more painful because of how hard I try to hide them from the people around me. The dark days are so many that I have learned not to get too close to anyone for fear that they'd feel obligated to ask me what was wrong - and then I'd have to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it. I have this impenetrable belief that, like Medusa, whoever sees the face of my pain will be turned to stone. I don't ever want to leave someone else feeling the way I do.

So quit reading this before I face you in full.