Use Well Thy Freedom.

It's Just A Matter Of Writing The Kind Of Book I Enjoy Reading. Something Better Be Happening At The Beginning, And Then On Every Page After, Or I Get Irritated.

Depression Presents Itself As A Realism Regarding The Rottenness Of The World In General And The Rottenness Of Your Life In Particular. But The Realism Is Merely A Mask For Depression's Actual Essence, Which Is An Overwhelming Estrangement From Humanity. The More Persuaded You Are Of Your Unique Access To The Rottenness, The More Afraid You Become Of Engaging With The World; And The Less You Engage With The World, The More Perfidiously Happy-faced The Rest Of Humanity Seems For Continuing To Engage With It.

How Wrong To Have Been So Negative, How Wrong To Have Been So Gloomy, How Wrong To Have Run Away From Life, How Wrong To Have Said No, Again And Again, Instead Of Yes.

You Encountered A Misery Near The End Of The Day And It Took A While To Gauge Its Full Extent. Some Miseries Had Sharp Curvature And Could Be Negotiated Readily. Others Had Almost No Curvature And You Knew You'd Be Spending Hours Turning The Corner. Great Whopping-big Planet-sized Miseries.

I Find It A Huge Strain To Be Responsible For My Tastes And Be Known And Defined By Them.