I feel a kind of desperation, like I’m disappearing or losing myself or something. I don’t know what to do with myself. I fidget endlessly. I’m waiting for the end of the world. I only get one life and this is what I’m doing with it: sitting in front of a television screen watching nothing in particular waiting for it to be months later, not because I have anything in particular to do months later, but because I have nothing in particular to do now and I’m hoping something will magically have appeared months later.
Stupid. I have no plans, no goals, no likes. I am not doing what I want, and there is nothing I want to do. I am waiting for some kind of personal messiah. Such a person is not coming; such a person doesn’t exist.
So I just sit and read Sartre over and over again, like a poseur.