Vivat Libertas

So this all started with an absolutely terrible event. I've lost my mind like I haven't done in a long time, so this post isn't going to be at all coherent. Have fun deciphering my mental scrabblings, guys. Long story short, everyone's alive. Everyone now wants to move on - except me. But why? you might ask. Moving on is desirable, the end goal after trauma. Not moving on is for weaklings, attention seekers and other such - to put it impolitely - absolute fuckheads that no sane human being wants to associate with. The trouble with me is that I think too much. It's certainly better than doing the opposite, but I don't think in straight and clear lines or elegant curves: I think in circles, tangles, swerving in sharply as I spin towards the centre of the proverbial downwards spiral. It's not good for me. Sometimes I think a lobotomy would help. It's especially odd, as in depression most activity of just about anything in the body is reduced - that...

Again, this was written while I was off at the JACT Summer School , and I haven't edited it in the slightest, which is why it might read a bit weirdly. I freely admit it; I know nothing about like. I am young - too young, some people say, for my opinions to be worth anything - and inexperienced, and, being a teenager, people say that I'm prone to melodrama. I also freely admit that I know nothing about my purpose in life, and I have very little idea of how to make one for myself. I am too young to be free - which would help - but I'm too old not to believe that fundamentally, life is meaningless. We exist because however many years ago someone fertilised an egg and the resulting ball of cells was carried to term and lived; our only purpose is to make as many more balls of cells as we can, and if we reject that we have nothing. Bleak diatribe aside, I'm not treading any new ground here. I'm not treading any new ground either when I say that I find it wonderful ...