22 March 2013

I hate the way I feel. One minute on a high the next with no idea where my life is headed or if it has any point. I think it's only my weakness that keeps me going.

If I knew what the point of it was then perhaps I could figure it out. But I can't.

What is the point of life with no purpose? (Or is that a tautology? It's certainly rhetorical. But then, aren't all questions posed in a diary by their nature rhetorical?)

I'm talking to myself. This is too close to desperation. I'd better stop. The catharsis has failed me. Thank god W drew stumps. Feeling responsible for dragging someone else down would be the final straw.