I’ve started to go to therapy; I’m in tenth grade and I’m severely depressed—not clinically depressed, the kind of depression that is full and gives the full spectrum of the romanticized version of it all. I guess I longed to be a tortured artist, and a starving heart, and at long last I saw it through. I pissed and moaned, often times feeling very bright and very dark simultaneously. I saw the world as shades black and grey, there hardly any warmth in the world. “Intellectualization” was something I finally understood. There was no purpose or point to life. I zoomed far out and saw the earth as a grain of sand on a endless beach, and thought for purpose is a grain of sand to anyone. I thought, sure I might add something, but is what I add worth anything in the grand scheme of space and time and distance. I believed my words would live on for a while, until society got further hypnotized and led astray that book were meaningless and had lost value. It turned into a world where only the ignorant had children, and technological screen has replaced social interactions. Time passed on and everything became reduced to a type of doubletalk and poetry no longer existed. Further down the line, the word poetry and literature became archaic, and the people and their words became duller and duller until we reached the last stage of mankind where one did nothing for themselves and just dumped garbage on the next helpless generation, who didn’t have the wits to see nor clean it up. So my words may last a generation or two, but why should it matter. Nothing matters, except how you feel for this brief blink of time we possess. I thought dying early was beautiful, living long and prospering isn’t possible any longer. To live long with dull minds and a paradisaical common life would be pointless and worthless. I accepted that a flash of lightning is worth more than a thousand sunsets, I, too, liked the comfort of being sad.