bibliophilosophy

Words are powerful. I think we forget how meaningful they are; I mean, all words ARE is little bits of meaning strung together. 

One of my friends is severely depressed. When he talked about dropping out of school and becoming an alcoholic bum, he wasn’t lying. He wanted to. He was hospitalized last month. 

My other friend likes to talk about dropping out of school and says “kms” a lot when she gets a math problem wrong. She isn’t depressed, just immature. When I tell her that’s overkill (no horrific pun intended), she doesn’t seem to get it. I never know what to think. She doesn’t show any other symptoms of depression. 

Does she forget how powerful saying “kill myself” is? Is that what happens when you make it so easy to type three little letters without typing out the full meaning? 

I didn’t realize how depressed my friend was until he completed changed his language. It wasn’t until he told my best friend “fuck you, you fucking annoying bitch” when she was trying to help and then told me he felt no remorse that I knew something was really, really wrong. 

She cried for an hour. He told me he meant it. 

It’s a weird disease. It leaves you without your self. I don’t know how to communicate anymore. 

There is no fear quite like the paralyzing panic when you realize you might have left your journal somewhere. 

The fear intensifies when you think you might have left it at a school full of nosy, judgmental adolescents.

oh please god no

A seemingly inevitable neologism that popped into my head as we read “Hamlet” in my lit class. 

A noun.

Something that’s more than solely a soliloquy, a questioning soliloquy that explores an indefinite expression rather than a statement.

remixthebard:

To sleep, or not to sleep—that is the question:
Whether ‘tis wiser in the mind to suffer
The pains and sorrows of humongous homework
Or to close lids against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To sleep, to rest—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That brains are heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To sleep, to dream—
To dream—perchance to slack: ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of laze what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off laborious toil,
Must give us stress. There’s consternation
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of work,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the mathematical migraine,
The pangs of the unanswered, the callous essay,
The insolence of worksheets, and the spurns
That student merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
With a soft pillow? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after graduation,
The unfulfillèd goals, from whose decease
No youngster returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to colleges we prefer not?
Thus consciousness does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great naps and lethargy
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of inaction. — Soft you now,
The dread Alarm clock! — Beast, in thy cries
Be all my dreams remembered.