depression / Diary / Quick Notes

Random thoughts

People of ancient civilizations told each other myths because they couldn’t explain the world around them. Things that are now as prosaic as rainfall or the coming and going of the seasons were so mysterious, their origins so far beyond understanding, that the only way to console their ignorance was to tell a story…

* * * * * *

The origins were almost always traumatic. The murder of a family; a failed experiment; the death of a planet. In each case, something was irretrievably lost; something irrevocably gained. Their stories are long, but not encapsulated neatly between the covers of a heavy book – they span decades and leap between universes –

– and can always be rewritten as the mind and pen see fit.

Whereas my destiny seems trapped in stern lines.

* * * * * *

I think my country is dying. My regard for our leader and for myself followed practically the same trajectory. I loathe him / myself. I’m not sure what significance that has, or if it has anything to do with anything, but it’s a fact.

I think my country is dying. I never really loved it but I never hated it as much as he seems to hate it.

* * * * * *

Someday I hope my suffering and confusion could seem, too, as prosaic as the rain.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s