Hey, Jude. Don't take it bad.

Instead of trying to get to bed at a decent hour (for "decent hour" read "sometime before 1 AM"), I decided I'd be productive and finish the last book assigned for my novel class, Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure.

I haven't felt this low after reading a book since Of Mice and Men.

It's just... what is the point of following one's dreams? They're almost completely unlikely to ever come true. It's far better to be happier in smaller things than to subsume one's entire life in an impossible dream, as romantic as that may sound on paper. As much as I joke about my ambition to write the next great American novel, I don't want that to be another rabbit farm, a sweet story I tell myself at night so's I can sleep.

And why bother with houses and spouses and white picket fences? When we die, they'll just be there for our children or our distant relatives or our few remaining close friends to deal with, to sort through however many years worth of crap we've managed to accumulate, to take home the few things they take a fancy to, which will only lead to their children and spouses and relatives having to do the exact same thing for them in their turn once they die. I realize that I'm feeling this partially because of the lateness of the hour and partially because I've just finished an immensely depressing book, but it also feels like this whole semester has been building towards this point.

I just don't know. Maybe things will be brighter in the morning.