Thoughts of meaningless.

For the past couple of weeks, since my college went on break, I’ve been grappling with this idea that my life is entirely meaningless and that I don’t have any purpose—any direction—to my life in general. I feel it’s probably because that I’ve been taking my antidepressants on and off during this entire time due to me not wanting to get out of bed several days in a row. It also certainly doesn’t help that I just watched a video that got heavily into the entire idea of “everyone dies in the end,” and here I am wasting away my life. I know I’m nineteen, and the average life expectancy in America is about seventy-nine years old. I know I have plenty of time left to live my life. But it doesn’t help that I don’t feel like I’m doing anything worthwhile with it.

I could try changing things. Certainly that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to read some more. Write some more. Hell, I even did a writing prompt on reddit as a little warm-up for other things, yet it still feels unfulfilling. Maybe it’s the quarantine. The fact that we should all be staying inside. Maybe it’s the fact I’m an introvert, and I want to go outside for once—when I know there won’t be anyone else around, except me really. Maybe it’s me coming to grips with my own morality for the millionth time. Whatever it is, I hope it passes soon. Depression sucks.

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