I have reached the end of the week. All structure is gone. Tomorrow, there is nothing for me to do. I have no math problems to do, no english to write, no history to study. Nothing to think about of any superficial yet substansial-feeling meaning. No goals, only depression. No ambitions, only the familiar. No inhibitions from seeing the pure, naked reality. I have nothing which with to distract myself with other than long-term procrastinations and pondering mortality. Then, you might ask, why are you writing this? The reason I'm writing this is because writing this is one of these superficial goals, an inhibition from seeing reality, one of these things that might spark unneeded ambition. Maybe in writing this I'll become a better person who does what's right every time. More likely I'll simply slip deeper into the insanity that appears to be consuming my soul slowly.
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