I am having minor depression, though I know I should not have it. When I was in high school, the English teacher made us read a book called "The Great Gatsby". I am thinking about this book recently, it's a sad story about humanities, I cannot say it is about love. I think the real healthy person are those who accept realities. Are we all human being hypocrites? Life is not enjoyable to me sometimes. Would there be one day I commit suicide if I keep fault-finding. I miss the days when my nature parents were together. Their separation saddens my days, what they destroied in me is faith. Who can I trust in this world? Spouse? Family memebers? Parents do not owe me anything, they gave me life, they have their rights to pursuit their own happiness. But what is happinese? Marry someone who can afford you? They love you because you are rich, high degree, or just simply because you are pretty. The dilemma is that people who says love is not existing is a hypocrite, and people who says love is existing is also a hypocrite. Sorry about the non-coherence of my writing, I do not have a clear mind. Sorry, I am depressed at the moment, just like I am drunk.
