/lit/ - Literature

One never appreciates sanity or mental strength when they have it. I lived half my life with an inflated sense of self worth but it has not lasted in the rest of the race. The unreal seems now all too plausible and I have nothing to fight against it. I can remember when feelings of worthlessness were this abstract thing and I had an inexplicable certitude of hope in the future, I never entertained misery in earnest, I couldn't if I wanted to. None of that remains, suicidal ideations feel so near it's like I'm planning the itinerary for the shopping center a few blocks away. The only amazement I feel now is how convincing is what was unthinkable. I still reject this on some level but it's sort of...perfunctory. Being alive is just a habit, one I'm slowly growing tired of.