I like to be honest, which is why I've not bothered trying to replace my last journal or to delete it. I'm not all about wearing my heart on my sleeve but rather, like the Yates poem, I lay it before you... tread carefully. Perhaps that is needlessly profound but I thank every one who commented and has since helped me through. I'm honestly a very lucky guy. For a long while now I've been managing okay. But just recently I've finished a book, a very good book. Well I enjoyed it but it, like so many others has thrown me in to a state of existential depression. And I don't mean that in the vague popculture sense. No matter how many times I can come to terms with the expression 'we owe ourselves to death' in a single moment my resolve is taken out from under me and I just want to collapse into another's arms and weep. I'm miss quoting now but in effect 'the respect that makes calamity of so long life' whilst Hamlet's key focus is the notion of life after death, I feel it is more prudent to acknowledge that the quest for meaning within said longevity is wholly more horrific. For the dreams that must give us pause, are still dreams. Every second of breath that condenses into the ethereal atmosphere of meaning, is pain. Indeed, a solitary, harrowing pain. Hamlet was unlucky, he had the church to contend with. I am luckily unfortunate, I am afforded the freedom of cynicism.
A good book leaves me feeling hollow, out of place. It was almost if I'm not here at all. A lightness of being if you will. You'd think that such a thing would be liberating. But in this you must understand that each moment dies upon its occurrence. Your heart cowers in your chest, your brain debates: laybels give them to me, let me affiliate meaning. But none will come because laybles are applied to you by others. Even if you did give it to your self, some one else must see it to validate it. The brain screams 'how do I fit!' It doesn't matter. If I'd never read the book, none of this would have happened. But now that it has I can't escape it. I'm afraid, afraid that in the end, I will die a rabbit or burnt to ash. And the words written on my grave will be those of another. I'm afraid that I will never have meant anything at all. There is more I could say about the nausea but I'll let you get back to your shadows and the like. Sorry that last bit was a little bit pretentious.

If you got though that , thank you for reading.