-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Марк Мэнсон
-
- Тонкое искусство пофигизма
-
- Стр. 106/115
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
I
went
into
a
deep
depression
that
summer
.
I
thought
I
’
d
been
depressed
before
,
but
this
was
a
whole
new
level
of
meaninglessness
—
sadness
so
deep
that
it
physically
hurt
.
People
would
come
by
and
try
to
cheer
me
up
,
and
I
would
sit
there
and
hear
them
say
all
the
right
things
and
do
all
the
right
things
;
and
I
would
tell
them
thank
you
and
how
nice
it
was
of
them
to
come
over
,
and
I
would
fake
a
smile
and
lie
and
say
that
it
was
getting
better
,
but
underneath
I
just
felt
nothing
.
I
dreamed
about
Josh
for
a
few
months
after
that
.
Dreams
where
he
and
I
would
have
full
-
blown
conversations
about
life
and
death
,
as
well
as
about
random
,
pointless
things
.
Up
until
that
point
in
my
life
,
I
had
been
a
pretty
typical
middle
-
class
stoner
kid
:
lazy
,
irresponsible
,
socially
anxious
,
and
deeply
insecure
.
Josh
,
in
many
ways
,
had
been
a
person
I
looked
up
to
.
He
was
older
,
more
confident
,
more
experienced
,
and
more
accepting
of
and
open
to
the
world
around
him
.
In
one
of
my
last
dreams
of
Josh
,
I
was
sitting
in
a
Jacuzzi
with
him
(
yeah
,
I
know
,
weird
)
,
and
I
said
something
like
,
“
I
’
m
really
sorry
you
died
.
”
He
laughed
.
I
don
’
t
remember
exactly
what
his
words
were
,
but
he
said
something
like
,
“
Why
do
you
care
that
I
’
m
dead
when
you
’
re
still
so
afraid
to
live
?
”
I
woke
up
crying
.
It
was
sitting
on
my
mom
’
s
couch
that
summer
,
staring
into
the
so
-
called
abyss
,
seeing
the
endless
and
incomprehensible
nothingness
where
Josh
’
s
friendship
used
to
be
,
when
I
came
to
the
startling
realization
that
if
there
really
is
no
reason
to
do
anything
,
then
there
is
also
no
reason
to
not
do
anything
;
that
in
the
face
of
the
inevitability
of
death
,
there
is
no
reason
to
ever
give
in
to
one
’
s
fear
or
embarrassment
or
shame
,
since
it
’
s
all
just
a
bunch
of
nothing
anyway
;
and
that
by
spending
the
majority
of
my
short
life
avoiding
what
was
painful
and
uncomfortable
,
I
had
essentially
been
avoiding
being
alive
at
all
.
That
summer
,
I
gave
up
the
weed
and
the
cigarettes
and
the
video
games
.
I
gave
up
my
silly
rock
star
fantasies
and
dropped
out
of
music
school
and
signed
up
for
college
courses
.
I
started
going
to
the
gym
and
lost
a
bunch
of
weight
.
I
made
new
friends
.
I
got
my
first
girlfriend
.
For
the
first
time
in
my
life
I
actually
studied
for
classes
,
gaining
me
the
startling
realization
that
I
could
make
good
grades
if
only
I
gave
a
shit
.
The
next
summer
,
I
challenged
myself
to
read
fifty
nonfiction
books
in
fifty
days
,
and
then
did
it
.
The
following
year
,
I
transferred
to
an
excellent
university
on
the
other
side
of
the
country
,
where
I
excelled
for
the
first
time
,
both
academically
and
socially
.
Josh
’
s
death
marks
the
clearest
before
/
after
point
I
can
identify
in
my
life
.
Pre
-
tragedy
,
I
was
inhibited
,
unambitious
,
forever
obsessed
and
confined
by
what
I
imagined
the
world
might
be
thinking
of
me
.
Post
-
tragedy
,
I
morphed
into
a
new
person
:
responsible
,
curious
,
hardworking
.
I
still
had
my
insecurities
and
my
baggage
—
as
we
always
do
—
but
now
I
gave
a
fuck
about
something
more
important
than
my
insecurities
and
my
baggage
.
And
that
made
all
the
difference
.
Oddly
,
it
was
someone
else
’
s
death
that
gave
me
permission
to
finally
live
.
And
perhaps
the
worst
moment
of
my
life
was
also
the
most
transformational
.
Death
scares
us
.
And
because
it
scares
us
,
we
avoid
thinking
about
it
,
talking
about
it
,
sometimes
even
acknowledging
it
,
even
when
it
’
s
happening
to
someone
close
to
us
.
Yet
,
in
a
bizarre
,
backwards
way
,
death
is
the
light
by
which
the
shadow
of
all
of
life
’
s
meaning
is
measured
.
Without
death
,
everything
would
feel
inconsequential
,
all
experience
arbitrary
,
all
metrics
and
values
suddenly
zero
.
Something
Beyond
Our
Selves
