/lit/ - Literature

>I am a sad person. Over the years I've come to realize my internal remonstrations, the voice of conscience that says, this is wrong, what is - is not what should be, that ultimately he is a liar and someone complicit in my misery. I satisfied myself and my misgivings with inklings of rebellion, I said my heart protests and thus I am not consumed by my sadness, a sort of due diligence, a proof of concept - one of hope itself and so have confused poverty with promise, pain with productivity. I've been going on like that for a long time, but exhausted with schizophrenic hope I've decided to give up.

I was a liminal creature, belonging nowhere and with no-one but mingling with most (as needed). I think people liked me, I was funny. But I disliked everyone, they made me nervous. I dropped out eventually disaffected with life itself and too ready to believe the grandiose nothings I read.
Not much has changed.