"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. The rest are games; one must first answer."
I've grappled with this tension for years. A burden that weighs on me like gravity, dragging and pulling on my will to live. And yet, I do. Why?
I don't know. Perhaps I am scared. Or just too apathetic to realize that, as the years pass and the world marches on, I have already chosen.
"They are dead. For they have no dreams."
For now, I'm still breathing. At the very least, I think it'll be fun to write this journal. A playground to see my curiosity through. And to stretch my rational capacities.
The fire crackles yet. What does it mean to live?
