Note: The only changes to this entry are minor corrections to grammar, punctuation, formatting, and spelling. I’ve also removed any last names which appeared, except in the case of teachers.
I wonder if I’m clinically depressed. I don’t think so. I’m a little lonely, though — I miss Monica. I want to talk to someone.
This is one of those moods that makes me want to drink. Or go to a busy public place, just to be around other people. My isolation is somewhat self-imposed.
I don’t like it when this melancholy descends. I want to get rid of it, yet I also treasure it. Maybe I think suffering is noble, or cool, or inspiring. I don’t know.
Perhaps I’ll go to sleep soon — is that a retreat from the world? Depressed people do sleep a lot.
This is a bleak mood. It is terrible that I recognize my mood and choose not to overcome it. Choose, you ask? Yes, choose. I’m pretty sure that I could just let this mood lift — well, force it to lift, anyway. But I’m not, for some reason. There is no audience here for my suffering, so can I really be doing it out of self-pity?
Have I always possessed this dark, melancholy, introspect part to me? It is no fun.
Writing about it doesn’t help. Writing probably doesn’t help. Very little helps. That’s a complete lie. Companionship would temporarily alleviate it. Being with Monica would help a lot.
I guess everyone has these moods. How the fuck do most people deal with them? But I can deal with them. I just don’t. Do I not want to be happy? What the fuck do I want? What do I need from life in order to be happy? Is there an answer to that question? Fuck.
“What’s the secret, Max?”
“You seem to have it pretty figured out.”
“Well, i think you need to find something you love and do it for the rest of your life.”
I love Monica. Should I try to be with her for the rest of my life? Way too soon to say. She doesn’t love me. Does that matter? Does anything? Probably. But what?
Should I look for the solution to my problems in someone else, or can only I solve my problems? Pop culture would have me believe that the key is within myself. I suppose that is possible.
All too easily I can picture myself as a lonely old man. Will I ever find whatever it is I’m looking for? Or have I already?
Right now I want to get in the car and drive to Monica. My life here is fucked anyway. School, for the most part, is becoming dull. I can probably count my real friends on one hand. I’m tired of this life.
But is this just a case of the grass being greener? Christ, I don’t know. I need to do something or I’ll eventually explode. I wish I was 6 years old again. Or dead. No, I’m not suicidal — I doubt my death (whenever it comes) will be from suicide. But being dead is simple and holds a certain appeal for me. So does living on a mountain for a year and not speaking to anyone. Am I going crazy? Would it come as a surprise to anyone if I went nuts? Maybe.
I hope all of this stuff is just a catharsis of sorts (never pass up an opportunity to use the word catharsis).
Hopefully this (writing) will exhaust me. I am growing more tired.
Laura just called. I’ll write more later.