This probably isn’t a “traditional” post, but I can’t seem to find a good place to express these feelings without inadvertently hurting someone: I have no hope. Everything seems meaningless. I really want to have a reason to keep going but everything is becoming so... immaterial... transient... ephemeral. I wake up and I experience nausea. I call my therapist outside, overcast, and she tells me to count down to ten, to stop thinking so broadly, to focus on the “‘next few days” well, that’s very difficult. It’s difficult when my aunt died of the virus and a cousin killed themselves, and I’m with my family praying over fucking zoom. I can’t tell the difference between laziness, indifference, burnout, and depression: my days melt into a hazy, suffocating mist. Like a steam room that’s getting hotter and hotter. It was nice at first. Being home from college. Things weren’t too hot yet, until they were. I’m mentally incapacitated. Where does philosophy and theory meet pathology? I don’t know anymore. I’m more cynical than I ever was. Can any comrades relate to this? What’s the way out, how can I read my way out of a mental crisis? Proust? Frankl? Gide? Freud? Marx? ... Nietzsche? Or is it nothing, am I supposed to “buckle down” and get things done like everyone tells me. That one think that I can’t seem to do.