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Diary of a Twenty-Something: 07.24.18.

July 25, 2018


I wish that when I stopped writing these posts, the thoughts went away. I wish that I was playing up my mental health disorder, or making up problems in my head for good blog content. But I'm not. When I stop writing, the thoughts still exist, and they spiral and spiral until I can't get out of my head.


Lately, the existential dread has been swallowing me. I've never believed in a higher power, or a god, or a deity, or any greater force that predestines our existence. I only have myself. I believe that we create our own purpose, and as of late, I can't seem to figure out what mine is.


I've been asking myself "what's the point?" a lot lately.



I keep thinking about this little beach off the coast of Caldes d'Estrac, and how beautiful and free I felt there. I want to drain my bank account and fly there, and end things on a high. 



I'm not suicidal. 


I think about suicide, but tell me honestly, who doesn't sometimes? The difference lies in the intent. I think about it a lot, but I don't think I could do it. 


Certainly not before I see the beaches of Barcelona more. 




Sometimes I hate the capacity of human thought. 


Every other animal exists, without questioning why it does. Our fundamental purpose is to survive and reproduce, but our miserably intelligent brains have the capacity to think beyond that.


We can question our significance, and wonder why we do the things we do... no other animal questions it's purpose, the way we do. That must be lovely, to simply live, and be content with that. 



I just don't see the point.


I don't think there is one.


But I can't seem to find my point either. 




Honestly, I hate how fucking depressing I am.


I hate that I sit in my apartment, drinking coffee, and writing away on my computer.


I hate that I fulfill that stereotype so perfectly.


I hate that I have nothing happy to write about, so much of the time.


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