You could suppose that detachment is sometimes the best option in situations similar to this. It’s something that we all do because its cold and calculating. Like numbers on a board. You see it, tangible. In this instance, I suppose I’m referring to myself, just talking to myself. It’s easier this way.
“You never really know what you have until its gone,” they say, but its all bullshit. You realize more, I suppose, but you always know what you have. Perhaps we take things for granted, fuck, I need to remember this is a first-person work. I took things for granted. But I’m fairly content with where I’m at right now. I suppose I’ve gotten to a point in life where I can look in the mirror and finally understand who I’m talking to.
There’s an art to being dismal. My time on this planet is insignificant. I’ve come to terms with that. This depresses me slightly, but only slightly. What’s made me melancholic is knowing that all art is shit. What you’re reading is shit. Look at me, calling my ramblings a work of art, how vain. I suppose what I’m trying to say is, don’t put faith in anything but the knowledge that one day, you will die. The one thing in this life that, if you can even call it that, is insurmountable.
I should probably only write of things I know of personally, instead of hearsay. This passage is completed, I won’t allow anymore.