Hey guys, it's been a long, long while since I bothered posting here, huh?

I just randomly got possessed or something for about ten minutes while I was about to doze off (working on dull math studies for skills I didn't feel like improving) XD and my mom thought I scribed it off some transcendentalist book or something. Anyway. Please comment and let me know what you think!

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Is there ever anything but nothing more? It seems as though we are all completely dreadfully normal, simply so, actually; in lieu that we are good at some things and bad at other things, and all our lives we are talked at and pushed to make what is worse better and keep what is best higher than everyone around us. Is that not just droning existence? Even doing what is pleasing to ourselves is slightly boring in that once you learn the secret, pleasure becomes dread. The secret is this:

All good intention and good fun is destined to become an intangible memory. After laughter has ceased or glory is reached or awe is filled, never again will you be able to perfectly or even remotely recall what happiness tasted like on your tongue, or the touch or smell of those things that raised you higher, or remember exactly what it was in the curvature or coloring or vastness that required awe at all. Completely, all happy memories become memories, replaced instead with the friction and slow wading of everyday life. Have I explained the secret?

Happiness is destined to either fade or be dashed, as is sadness: how are we supposed to be truly happy forever when that ecstasy is just as fleeting a phase as the gasp-drawn word label depression?

Everything is merely a phase, and so when one is angry or fearful or sad they think longingly of a time again where they will be joyful; laughing, glorious, awed, and yet the reverse and you are joyful; laughing, glorious, awed; and all you can think is don't let this ever end but for some instead of a sigh at one's lips it is an inevitable mantra, inevitable and inescapable as death or the fading of a rainbow, only an illusion begging to be scattered when the sun turns harsh.

Life is only existing and not living. In intelligence we have forsaken ourselves, provided on bloody platters anxiety and hatred and fear and tears, mocking those simpler folks or beasts that seem to have a more closely-knit connection to their reality than we, a better understanding of what and who they are and therefore a complete and utter confidence in their own square of a puzzle-slot; they know where they fit in.

But in comfort we have allowed ourselves to feel discomforted, as those who have never eaten chocolate would not mourn the taste.

For in being simple there is freedom in simple primal pleasures, and in sophistication there are complexities so vast that we can never truly escape ourselves, simply like everyone else.

For in 'depression' (term coined by hoity psychologists in some century or another to explain abnormalities in behavior and reasons for suicide) there is only waiting for deliverance and laughter is just the sweet song of the dying meadowlark waiting for deliverance.

Life is just the same as any other, and trapped in-between I frequently have no idea what I ought to understand and wish for all my brainpower I could learn to stop thinking or that these squawking morons around me could stop trying to carbon-copy my person into a perfectly talented individual when in reality my purpose, overshadowed by a greater need to be recognized- fed by practical positive reinforcement of course- is to be blessedly, completely, and diversely normal.