"A right understanding that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not by adding to life an unlimited time, but by taking away the yearning after immortality."- Epicurus 
There is so much to know, to learn, to take in. Seconds pass and the present becomes the past. Its a slow and inevitable torture. I sit and I write, I read philosophy (or at least I try to!) I want to understand the world, and I want to understand myself. I don't think I can. 
I'm trapped in the fear of wanting to do but not wanting to be judged. 
There is so much I yearn for, and so little I do about it. 
What will I do when I read this back in several years time? Will I be sad, shake my head at how naive this eighteen year old is? Its half term, we have a week off school. I've sat in my house doing nothing all day. My existence is laughable. 
I don't think I have yearned for life after my death, should I? Life passes and its frightening but in a curious kind of way. Whats around the corner? Mostly its what was before the corner, the same dreary drivel. Life is a bore, and I feel a fool for writing that because in the prime of my age shouldn't I view the world with rose tinted glasses? Shouldn't everything be new and exciting and enjoyable? Shouldn't I be making the most out of life? 
So many questions and so few answers. 
I rang my counselor up last week and asked for another appointment, I haven't seen her in over half a year. Time has passed and our lives have continued and I feel different put I can't quite place my finger on it. How do I feel different? I think I've hardened and crumbled at the same time. I watched a film just now and the boy who is mentally unstable talks of how he is happy and sad at the same time, and what a curious notion that is for him. I feel it too. I wonder if everybody does? I'm laughing and smiling and joking, but I'm dying a little inside. Self destruction seems to be my forte. Its what I find comforting, have others comfort me in my time of despair. 

If I wasn't myself I think I'd have a tense disliking for me. As my mother says I feel everything very strongly, and I don't think this is a particularly desirable quality. 

I'm just an empty shell, comfort eating to fill the void. I'd like to be thin, I really would so that my outsides could mirror my insides. A dried up well, dusty and deserted. 
Self pitying will get me nowhere. I have a passion to write but the words are always tinged with such sadness and self loathing. I can't begin to imagine writing about something other than myself, and thats the irony of it all isn't it? We self loath but we couldn't imagine a life where we didn't, because in that life would exist the premise that in order to stop self loathing we would instead have to focus our attention to something else, something that isn't us. And when you think of it like that, self loathing isn't really self loathing at all, its a very complex, ingrained obsession with ourselves.