You know, sometimes I really do wonder what the point behind living is. I find myself thinking about that on a relatively regular basis virtually every time I spend extended periods of time by myself. Not that I mean to be down or anything, I'm not even feeling depressed right now, but I just find it to be an interesting question. As a suicidal depressive, sparse sociopath, and, undeniably, a human being, I have upheld relatively skewed views on life from time to time, though I can never find an answer to my question and likely never will.

That said, what point is there really behind life and living? We're born, we live out our mundane lives of mediocrity, and we die. Very few people will ever make any sort of lasting impression upon society; once you're dead, yours is an ineffectual existence extinguished from the face of the Earth and the history of all that was and ever will be. Your memory is carried on by the ones you love, but what is left of your life when they move on, die, or, slowly but surely, oblivion overtakes the remnants of your faded existence? Nothing. Nothing at all. We all hope to matter. We all hope to be remembered. But the truth is, we'll be forgotten. All of us. With time. It's unavoidable. So what, then, is the meaning behind living if it's all so fleeting? Why should I be born if I'm just going to die? Why should I bother living if there's no real point behind it all? I just don't know. I never will, and I accept that as much as it perplexes me.