That's what my old flatmate Rob once said to me several years ago; "Realise your limitations". That was back when I was doubtless bitching about my lacklustre life like some evil Emperor who hadn't, as yet, conquered anything.
'You mean you want me to just give up?' I scowled.
Rob squawked at me, and told me that wasn't what he meant at all. He meant I should narrow my goals perhaps, try to attain something a little more achievable.
I didn't. In fact, I dismissed his advice even if I appreciated his intentions. The fact was that despite 'getting' him, I found his argument repellent. I knew where he was coming from, but there was something overwhelmingly depressing about its implications. Rob could've dressed it up all he wanted (and he tried). It still sounded like: "Give up."
And that, I've realised, is why I'm depressed - perpetually, it would seem - and 3 introspective years blogging is proof of that.
After my strange wet eye scenario last month, and my attempt to avoid wheat to improve my mood (I'm having trouble - It is both not easy, and very boring), I have given my situation some thought, and I think I know why I'm feeling particularly depressed these last few weeks:
It's my limitations. I've finally realised them. Until quite recently, I'd held on to the belief that I really could do anything, and that I'm just on the cusp of a great job, a lovely girlfriend, and a decent future for once in my violently atrophying life.
But something's just clicked; I give up.
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Edit 24/11/2009: Since reading your comments and emails (and thank you, by the way), I ought to stress that I'm not suicidal. I'm just very, very, very, very, very bored and pissed off with it all as the truth becomes self-evident that I can't write my way out of my well-worn rut, and I'm basically just a cunt.