{∅, {∅}, {∅, {∅}}} : Rage Against the Meat Grinder

When I get through a day where I feel as though I am living in a self-designed prison cell, where I am filled with doubts about having collected books in vain, thinking I will most likley never follow through and study a fraction of what I intend to, when I am just plain miserable and relieved that I do not have to interact with anyone so as not to expose my volitility and sensitivity ... when the night comes, the late night ... I almost feel better than "content".  It's as though one discovers a secret kind of relief upon rediscovering the pointlessness of all our strivings.

Am I alone in sensing this, that there is a hidden delight in just accepting our misery, when we just sink into this as being the true nature of our reality?

No wonder the more honest and sensitive among us have a bitter attitude towards the entertainment (and sports) industry with all their hype about the lives of the rich and famous ... and our bitterness towards all the gorts who perpetuate the lies about there being some kind of "good life".

Do you think it is possible that those who are in the processes of overcoming the will to live, losing interest in things in general, resigning themselves to just "get through life", not expecting to acheive any kind of lasting happiness, but simply avoiding danger and trying to be content with hiding in a room, may be concrete examples of the kind of terminology Schopenhauer was using?

I have been writing more to myself in the "command line diary" I put together using aliases in .bashrc.  I write technical notes to myself but also some philosophical outbursts.

I think of all those who must be miserable and I dream of a cure which would be as easy as simply being resigned to not feeling well.

It would be best to let it be known up front that you are not trying to be happy and that you find those who claim to be happy to be annoying.

I do experience some delightful little moments of discovery, but what I am suggesting is that the cure for depression (and chronic anger that gnaws at your insides) might be to find some relief in just getting used to just how difficult it can be to get through some days.

You see, we live in a world where people are trained not to complain because those who endure much without complaining are seen to be "strong".   Every creature has the burden of its own existence to deal with.  Suffering is everywhere.  It especially must be very prevailant within those who are constantly investing in acquiring the symbols of "success" ... for I imagine there is just no getting away from oneself, and one's self can't be that much different than the one I experience.

The more we know this inner life, the more we know all who breathe.

I could just as easily write these thoughts to myself ...

While I am rather caught up with technical and abstract ideas, there is still this animal creature who exists, and there is no denying the misery within me.  I'm just losing the desire to express these thoughts to anyone since I know others must go through similar periods of doubt, and still many more experience absolute horror.

I do not like to complain in public ... but to just try to cope with our reality ... being in the skin ... with this brain and thes bones ...

Take care of yourselves and don't mind me if I don't write here as often as I used to.

There is a good chance that I repress a lot and hold back.  I want to write how I really feel.  I want to write f-u-c-k and not fuuck.  I want to express how annoyed I become when I read the word "God".

There is something about a private diary that allows me to express myself more honestly with no other audience than this living animal in the flesh who is quite a contrarian.

There is a great emptiness within me.  I am very impressed with computing technology, and yet ... there is still this emptiness. 

None of the mathematics text books mention the great emptiness and pointlessness of all our strivings.