Ahh, fuck.Sinking slowly into the warm black waters of depression.
Sometimes it is so much easier to sink under than to struggle.
I am not drowning. Just revisiting. Drifting through.
Drifting. For what purpose do I try when the future will be no different from than past? Or different, yet no more to be prefered.
Why persist in the belief that things will get better when experience and rationality say that they never have so far?
Perhaps it is a reaction to fear.
Better, not to think about it.
Better, to slip into a daydream or a drawing; or better, to sleep.
