I have been a little on the depressed side lately. After reading Coleridge's Dejection: An Ode, I tried to relieve some of the pressure on my soul by refusing to think about the instances that made me so mad at myself for letting everyone down, for adding to or becoming the thing that I really hate. This helped for about fifteen seconds, and my heart would somehow make its way back to my stomach where the gastric juices began to digest it again. I tried to think of different instances, memories, ones that made me happy, but instantly I was struck by the memories I delighted in, they were so selfish, and every one of them resulted in my praise and personal glory. This, of course, was another wave of depression that swallowed me up and threatened to drown me. Well, somehow, as I always seem to, I came up for air, the waters receeded and I was suddenly sitting on the beach sipping lemonade, just like old times.