Cloud Catalog #163.

Dear life,

For many months I've resisted the urge to complain about you, thinking that by accepting what you are giving me I am being regarded as someone very patient, that by not succumbing to my constant bouts of depression and writing about them I am showing signs of improvement, hence a little part of me is expecting some sort of reward or at least a semblance of it, because I still happen to be a human being, needy and wanting, but as days go by and as I reach my wits' end I realize how useless it is to hope for something better, that the futility of everything is making me scared and weary at the same time, that whatever I do is pointless, that whatever I am is hopeless.

I feel sorry for myself, and I feel sorry for my misfortunes.

Miserably yours,

Cipher in the dumpster