I'm empty. Not empty like in the many previous times I've felt so but still came to paper with pen in hand to write -- no, this time the emptyness I feel is more severe, as it has sapped from me the will to write, the will to read. I just can't bring myself to it any longer. Yes I still am writing this now but it comes nowhere as <em>near</em> as reading now seems to me. It is as if I've never known any book before. My eyes lazily glance around the pages, skipping words by the dozens and from the few that it lands on not grasping much meaning. And many, many books I have whose pages remain unseen by me, and in an earlier occasion I might've read them, but now now, I cannot! I've entertained the notion of abandoning all internet for a while, as I lack the will to do so forever, and have even thought about getting something to drink... My obligations have now ceased and I'm left purposeless in life until the twenty-first of january comes around, for that is when I'll see how badly has my mistreatment of an essential part of a young man's life has come back to haunt me. And in the event that it does end up going well -- am I to move cities then? Up untill february will results come trickling in, and quite frankly I have chosen the easiest of courses to ever succeed in getting admitted. I wonder if I've really been thinking about that at all, or if I just grasped for a possibility in order to fill this paper's blank.
 I do, actually, have some obligations in the horizon,  but all of them non-enforceable and dependant on my will only, which might be the same as rendering them undoable. I should, but eh, why do so now, there'll be better opportunities to come; manwhile, let us wait for them in our low-effort existence of being constantly bombarded by 
information and entertainment (willingly, mind you), so as to forget that we're willingly bombarding ourselves with  information and entertainment in order to not have to do anything that might be of any worth, but that will take effort! And so days are spent like that and days go by and even when you manage to flee from it it becomes ephemeral, as you devote some time to anything using effort, and then, having spent so much effort, as you weren't properly calibrated to deal with that, you exhaust yourself and fall right back to that all-consuming cycle, and to escape and create again would require another breakthrough of effort, that in turn would make you exhausted once more, and etc. How very fortunate would you be if you managed a one to two ratio of doing and not doing! It is normal today for that ratio to be lower than zero point two. Not just days, but even hours, bear in mind. How horrendous does it seem to spend even half and hour outside of comfort. Most people now only pray when they desperately need it, not also to thank for when all is seemingly fine. And even when those moments of crisis strike, and utter fear and shame compel the person to pray, it is not done so humbly, no, but it is also treated as a chore! And when the calamity has blown away, no memory of it will remain! Suppressed or willingly forgotten! We do take it to be shameful while throwing entire days away, days passed spent as slaves to pride and sloth, and of those days we don't feel regret, we indeed only look forward to having more and more of those!
 In fact, it may only be possible to feel ashamed of them after we've truly escaped. But who, who these days does ever truly escape, oh Lord? Only in death! but even death will find a soul still bound by shackles, and when it frees the soul from them it'll have been too late. And day by day we are spoiled, fattened, thaught to pursue vice in ourselves and virtue in others, but never to cultivate it ourselves we take a step; so pleased are we with our condition that we can't stand or fathom ever being in another. And this present condition, masterly fabicated by worldly powers, makes it so that to escape is not an option. To live in it you have to adhere to it, and if you stop adhering to it, by immense willpower, quickly you'll be punished or made to err again. It is all-encompassing and all-devouring, ever hungry and ever thirsty, insatiable, unquenchable. The only possible revolt lies in our souls, but our souls have been made as much of a slave as we have been. Not even do the eventual conflicts that in here arise can serve as a way out, an escape door to a state of higher wellbeing; for even these are conducted such as to make all participants more engrossed in this perverted way of living. i know not of the extent of this control, but I do take it to be nigh inescapable when it concerns our relations with the material. There is one escape, and you know of it, but that is being undermined also. For what purpose? What is it that drives it to do so? It knows the final outcome. It knows what awaits. But it persists, and doubles down, and confines us even further.
 See, now I do feel worn out, and what has this programming led me to seek? All of those false escapes. I even spoke of one earlier, when I was more under the control of this evil spell. But it is no use. I have no way of knowing the true extent of the spell that has been cast upon me, nor do I know how to dispel it, and I don't care if it doesn't even end up being. Maybe that is the most powerful effect it has on us: Complete submission to it, at least in acts. In words it may show, but, to it, what are words without deeds?

P.S.
 See, as to the drink... It leads us to seek to use its own weapons against OURSELVES in order to quell our quarrels with IT? How is that so? And we do it, and in doing it we think that we're hitting IT, but it is WE in fact we're hitting. It is perfect. How do we hit IT? IT is unhittable. It is so. How could it not be? There are no tools to stop it. Not even to stop it's grasp in our souls, is it right? It feels so, but I wouldn't want it to be. But IT is. Is IT?

P.P.S.
 Now, after having written this and read it, I feel lighter; I've shed some of my inner turmoil in here, my yoke is light. What will I do now? Oh well, there was this entertaining thing I was watching before I felt compelled to write this down... I'll now return to it, I'll enjoy it; I'll try to forget what I've written down here. Goodbye.