Just a bunch of thoughts.

Some cataclysmic events invite clarity, explode into timelapsed frames: you smash your hand through a mirror and there is blood and shattered glass stained with red all over the place; you fall out a window, break some bones and scrape some skin, stitches and casts and bandages and antiseptic solve and salve the wounds. But depression is not a sudden disaster. It is more like a cancer: at first its tumorous mass is not even noticable to the careful eye, and then one day -- WHAM -- there is a huge deadly 7lbs lumb lodged in your brain or stomach or your shoulder blade and this thing that your own body has produced is actually trying to kill you. Depression is alot like that: slowly over the years, the data will accumulate, will build into your system, making life feel more and more unbarable. But you won't even notice it coming on, thinking that it is somehow normal, something about getting older, about turning eight or twelve or seventeen or twenty-two and then one day, you realize that your entire life is just one long line of awful mistakes, not worth the horror and you become a black blot on the white terrain of human existence. One morning you wake up, afraid your going to live.

And it's not as though I can validate the amount of pain and misery and despair I have suffered and endured as a depressive with the events of my life, which, sadly, today just seem so damn common. My reaction has been uncommonly strong, but really, it seems wrong to blame a statistical fact of life for any of it.

When you consider the widespread nature of depression, especially with people in my generation, it becomes completely mind-numbing, like so much pounding on a frozen, paralyzed limb that bruises but no longer feels. The reasons of why someone is depressed don't really matter, they are all the same. If you ask anyone how she happened to fall into the pit of desperation will always involve new variations of the same old story. there is always divorce, death, drunkeness, drug abuse and any of a thousand premutations of human depravity. I mean is there anyone out there who doesn't think he's fucked up?

On days when I am most dejected, I start to think maybe life doesn't really have a point. Any normal person might want there to be some purpose or reason but I wonder if there's not. What if life is just a bizzare series of flukes and accidents, mistakes and mutations. What if, despite all our efforts, we aren't as important as we pretned? All the decisions and choices we make seem unimportant and trivial looking back. At the end it will be as if you were a foot note in some book no one reads, the kind that sits aging and decaying on the back shelf of someone's senecent mind, long forgotten, rarely remembered. And even when someone dies, and while it may be sad and horrifically tragic, it is simply a part of life. After a while, people move on. Who do you remember? musicians, actors, adventure heros, political leaders, literary geniuses, philosophers, saints, but what of the average man? Is he as insignificant as on single ant among millions? Is there more to him than will be remembered, that is if he'll be remembered at all. I wonder if I'll be remembered.

Some say there is a reason for everything but is that really true? One minute alive, the next dead. A blink of an eye, forgotten. A decad passes, then a century, who will remember then. Even as I write these words I wonder if anyone will remember them. Perhaps they will plant a seed of thought within someone's heart and somehow they will change, become better or worse, but somehow become remembered.