006
Let me correct one misconception about myself, for myself. I am not in constant sadness, nor perpetually in mania. But rather, while my affect seems to portray such changes, I'm only ever in one state of being—complete and utter apathy.
If you told me that tonight I would, in fact, die in my sleep, I would go to bed early. Not because my life is miserable, nor that I'm in any kind of severe corporal pain. But rather because of a general feeling of uselessness towards life. I am fine, and I am fortunate and I am thankful. But in the end, what use is it, anyway?
It is selfish to speak this way. But even now, at what I consider my peak, at what I see as my goals being met and my will being exacted upon my life, shaping it the way I always wanted, I find no solace. I am happy because I am, and I am sad because I am and I am angry because I am and there is no meaning to it.
I cannot find solace in my apathy, nor freedom in my inability to care.
Perhaps it's just past midnight and I'm tired of a day of living. Perhaps it's anything, everything or nothing at all, all at once. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps.