One of the big root causes of my depression is that I value life too much. With all the possibilities and complexities, I’m disappointed in myself for not doing more with it, disappointed with others for perpetuating easy terrain, and disappointed with the world for degrading hope in favor of destruction and preserving the power of an elite segment of society. It all seems really silly, half the shit we worry about, when put into the context of the absolute inevitable. Death.
Possibility dissolves in death.  Suicide prevents possibilities worse then death. To me, there are none. Suffering is still experience and thus life. The more I understand my role in the world, the more I realize how much I’m going to have to fight to fulfill it, and the further time goes on, the more tired I get. That’s how the fantasy perpetuates itself. If you reward fantastic thinking, realists become outsiders, and it doesn’t matter if anyone is right or wrong, only who follows. Then you see how a flawed society can grow cancerous. Were there such a thing as a collective consciousness, which there isn’t, we would stop to diagnose the cancer and remove it. But society is not the sum of its parts, rather it is its average. My difference to the world is canceled out by someone else’s, making it impossible to make any impression deep enough for me to sustain my own existence on my own terms. But it’s the fact that my experience is my own, beginning and ending with the blood flowing into my brain, that makes it worth it. It’s not a happy thought for me to think that that’s all that’s keeping me alive.