(no subject)
One of my greatest personal fears has come true - has been true for a long time. I have come to regard all the interesting, creative, spiritual and philosophical musings of my past self, many of which were recorded in this very journal, as childish pipe-dreams and meaningless druggie drivel.
But maybe I don't feel this way. I can't tell. I can't tell if my nostalgia for these thoughts is a realization that I've lost some sense of the true and wonderful essence of existence, or if I simply desire that they were true, or in any way substantial.
I'm become an "adult" who lives in the "real world" and every single day the very first thing I think when I wake up is "I hate my life". And I'm not even exaggerating much. Those words (or some approximation thereof) really are the first thing I think when my alarm signals my return to the dreadful void of daily consciousness.
On a lighter note, I think I'll masturbate now.
But maybe I don't feel this way. I can't tell. I can't tell if my nostalgia for these thoughts is a realization that I've lost some sense of the true and wonderful essence of existence, or if I simply desire that they were true, or in any way substantial.
I'm become an "adult" who lives in the "real world" and every single day the very first thing I think when I wake up is "I hate my life". And I'm not even exaggerating much. Those words (or some approximation thereof) really are the first thing I think when my alarm signals my return to the dreadful void of daily consciousness.
On a lighter note, I think I'll masturbate now.