What life is this that taunts me with the surcease of breath, the death long awaited, long anticipated which will, when all is said and done, be as meaningless as the life in which it started. Breath shall cease. Life shall cease. And all shall be blackened with despair. Loss is the only true constant. The world loses a life and all the experiences of that life are lost right along with it. We are a society of greed and horror. Instead of quality of life, we seek quantity. Let them kill all the men, all the adult human life for there are more children now than there have ever been. Surely they will grow up to replace those lost in any amount of war or conflict.

Depression settles along with the realization of a wasted youth and a wasted life. Not wasted in the sense that it was all fun and games. Nay, that is not wasted, that is chosen. Rather, wasted in not doing anything, not improving or growing or changing, just being, sitting somewhere in an old dilapidated house, watching TV or typing in computer programs hoping that somewhere, somehow, meaning could be found or made. Instead, now I start again in the autumn of my 34th year. I try to make friends, I try to do what they do and enjoy what they do, but it is too late. I cannot go back and even if I could, what good would it do? Would I truly be able to change things or would I just be the same spineless, simpering excuse for a human being? Perhaps it is better not to know the truth in this matter.

Blessed be.