ponderings of a fifteen-year-old

From some perspectives, doing almost anything is utterly worthless. What point is there in doing anyhing, when it is never perfect, never even perfect within the mind;s narrow conception of itself. How limitied are we all, and who or what coul hoe to change that. To believe in the possibility of change, of being even a tiny bit btter, is too optimistic by far. Bleakness and darkness, they are what remains in the end. Nothing mttters, nothing at a;;, judt yime passuing and the pathetic ramblings of a boy and his keyboard. There is no clevernes in it, just a surrender ot the darknesss of the world. What good could a single person do, a person so imperfect as a human is. What use is talent when it is unable to be fostered. What use is work, without a motivation to push it on. What even is the point of trying to reach above one's station, to not just accept the life one has been dealt and drown oneself out in the mindless corners of the wworld, lost what is the point what is the point what is hte point what is the point what is the point what else is there what is the point what is th epoint in a sea that one has jumped into. The health deteriorates, the eye go blind, the brain keep turning, ‘‘‘the ear get lost in itself", the limbs go numb, the bOPOPOPOPOPPOOOOOOOOOOody become sick, the headache take over, but the brain continuously spew out itlaments trash till the true end .For what more could ther be but the true horror of being a humn, any human, who must live with a mind that knows not how to be happy, a mind that constantly dissapoints itself, trusting itself less and less. Then there is a but. The mind has an idea, it owants to free itself, it has a siple solution, which it cannot foll  else is there. What is the point.What is the point,  Whathat else is there. point. Wat is the What else is ther what else is there. Wh else is there. the work of a fifteen year old fossil. whatow the next moment, the next time it realixes, the trust drops further. But maybe things could be different, byr its not up to me. I a useless, fifteen years old and already a relic in history, what pint is therelI;m just typing because there is nothing else to do; what point is there to typing what point is there at all. Just inchorerence just typos just

Sleep

In the past, I had believed that I was a genius, I believed I had a great destiny, I believed I was the world's center. I was proven wrong, not in a single, life-defining, plot-point of epic proportions. But series of practical non-events, things that had significance to no one but me. Questions, I asked myself, that destroyed the grand narrative over time.

In my social circle, no one had any self-confidence. In my younger days, I believed that I was the only person who did not believe in themselves. That everyone else in my life was simply better than me, that they had it all figured out. I saw my own inadequacy, and looked at the minuscule potential for me to make a positive impact, the resources wasted on my upbringing, the self-loathing for not loathing myself sufficiently. What has my life amounted to, what could it ever amount to? Everyone around me was better, I had believed, whatever I could contribute, others could contribute more. I could never begin to repay the debt of suffering my own existence has brought upon the world.

I question the purpose of living, other than to blind myself to the future I know is coming, to seek short term pleasure, to go even further into debt, to die in all but name.

It is not really death, it is more like a nap, a dream, an illusion. I have always woken up, and each time I do, the road looks bleaker, the mind grows darker, and it takes another nap. The mind can go days just going with the flow, not thinking of anything beyond completing the next action in an endless cycle of numbness.

I don't even know my goals in life, the optimist in me claims that they want to better the lives of everyone in the whole world. Sometimes, instead, I scoff, and wonder if I'm obviously just hiding-refusing to think about- the selfish desires at my core.

Part of the reason for this is I can't take action, I see people around me do so, and conclude that it is possible, so I blame my nature. And what is nature, but something which I can do nothing about? Thus I fade into yet another frenzy of meaningless pleasure, and sometimes, when awake, I wonder if that is what I should do.

Who cares if the pursuit of short term pleasure leads to problems in the long term, if those problems are inevitable? It would be a waste, sure, but my life is already a waste. I just want to stop thinking about it. I just want to fall asleep, only asleep, am I truly happy. If I'm not happy, its because I'm not all the way asleep. Haven't I always been doing that anyway, what will waking up change? What has waking up this time changed?