Dear Nietzsche, Lately, I have been overwhelmed by my youth, and I feel depressed. I try to see through the day with the power of will, as you once taught—that it should motivate and strengthen me. But, dear sir, my will keeps telling me to rot in bed, to waste my day away doing nothing and being nothing. It overwhelms me that you and Sartre emphasized how we must take control of our lives—that it is our responsibility, our burden, our freedom. But what does it mean to take control when the mind, the very thing that is supposed to lead, begins to collapse? What happens when your brain starts to shut down, and tells you you’re worthless even when you're trying so hard to live? The Übermensch in me is straddled and muffled, suffocated by numbness and emptiness. I cannot stop it, even though I try—God knows I try. But tell me, sir, what is “trying” when you just sit in the same space, simply existing? What does it mean to do something or be someone when you can’t, even when you...
I sit before the screen, struggling to summon the words. I love existentialism in thought and theory— yet when I try to write, the dread overwhelms me. I stopped taking my meds— the numbness was louder than the pain. I needed to feel something, even the demons inside me. I love what I do—truly, I do. But I can’t move. My mind is still, heavy with fog. I’m stuck. I type, I think, I pour— but still, dread overtakes me. My supervisor— precise, but gentle— told me my work had everything, and yet, nothing. It lacked depth. I cried. Hard. Right there, in front of him. Not out of shame. Not out of embarrassment. But because something inside me feels lost. I hated myself. Still do. And yet— here I am. At my desk, crying, dreading, still trying as inevitable doom looms over me. Still, I’m here. Writing this, not what I’m supposed to. I cry— but the tears are hollow. Still here… am I? I hope that counts for something. I hope. I really do hope so badly.