My father had major depression my whole life. I never had much sense of what would make him proud or anything like that. He just accepted me. He never seemed to want anything in particular for me, other than for me to be happy. So, I've spent my life trying to figure out how to do that. To be happy, in spite of major depression. I felt like I was getting pretty close for a while, but the formula still needed work. I couldn't tell my father that he'd need to take up kickboxing.
Now it feels like it doesn't matter anymore. The world felt like it was ending and it did, in a sense. Thinking back on my time in Hawaii, it's like remembering a bad dream, or a month long acid trip. One from which I'd violently shaken myself awake. I went home, back to my own world, where we still have some time left.
Life is not in our constituent parts, but the biochemical system which holds it all together. Death is that moment the system ceases to do so, and something magical is suddenly just gone.
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