depression age

why are artificial light and walls and carpeting and horiontal blinds stabbing at me today? what's so different? i'm getting nauseous just looking at my desk and monitor and pens and paper and sunlight and my own arms. i want to bite down on something and cause it pain, i want to push something really hard, i want to grab a tree limb and pull myself up, i want to head-butt anything.

i should be content, or if not content at least reasonably pleased. me being sad seems hypocritical - others in the world have so much to be sorrowful about and to rue and lament; by comparison i am a king. why then this routine sinking sensation of self-pity that flies in the face of what i believe and try to hold true? i have a bed, clohing, food, even a job, and a plethera of objects that have no intrinsic value to sustaining life (i.e. frivolous crap) but still i find myself awash in depression. every goddamned day. even despite all the pills n' thrills and bellyaches (name that band and win a cookie). maybe the pills should be eighty-sixed. i've taken them for so long i really can't recollect if my situation was better off prior or not. frankly i'm tired of turning my mental energy inward in the name of emotional health. i'm tired of being hyper-self-analytic. i want some numbness. where's that apathy my generation is supposed to suffer from? blissful ignorance where are you.

this all makes me enraged at myself. these are the times when i really loathe my person and get involved in self-deprecation. for fuck's sake already.