After the outing, I feel like a total idiot, a parasite living off other's humour. It's like, I am a total stranger, and I wonder, is it worth the trouble? When you ask me, why don't I arrange that blind date, I wonder again, whatever for? Whatever for?
I can't love anything. Not even myself.
One has to find the meaning for himself. Things come and go, but I resolutely hold on to my knowledge. I must find the meaning to continue living, if not for myself, then for others. It doesn’t make sense to kill myself over such little objects of fancy and memory, yet I can’t get over it. And I don’t know why.
I must regain myself, I must. I must overcome myself. I must, I must. When my quaser is within my reach, should I release it? Where is the sense of satisfaction when I am on my path? It is seemingly nonsensical.
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