sorry, philosophical post

I've gone on a diet. We're going to write everything down... regain some control. But anyway my mom said as part of my diet I need to drink 48 oz. of water a day... so I was upstairs, and I decided to get most of it over with, and I drank 32 oz. of water without stopping to breathe, then immediately ran to the bathroom and threw up. I swear I didn't mean to throw up, and somehow I think that's not how water's supposed to help me lose weight. But a part in the back of my mind was very delighted to know there is a way other than overdosing to make myself throw up. I'm trying to ignore it though.
Anyway, I've been thinking a lot lately. (I'm pretty sure I think way too much than is good for me). My problem is that when I'm having fun, when I'm with my friends and I feel like a part of something, or with Matt... this sadness washes over me, because I know that the next day it will have already begun to fade, and it will be just another painful memory, because I will know that it's over. It's hard to look at life this way, as a succession of moments, hours, and days that I will come to miss so badly it will hurt. It almost seems like it's not worth being happy, because someday that happiness will have to be remembered, and it will ache, that memory. How can I live every day, every moment, knowing that it will pass? It seems almost unbearable to me.

This is very hard to put into words, and I've done it better before, but it's just that... I feel so sad when I'm happy because I know that inevitably that happiness, that moment, the people that are with me, everything, must eventually cease. Friendships will fade... someday I will never drive around town in the dark wtih people or hang out at Starbucks or play Cranium (lol, nobody wants to play against me in Cranium).

I mentioned it before, when Virginia Woolf said isn't it comforting that all this must cease, that death ends absolutely, and sometimes it is for me, but mostly it's unbearable. Nietzsche said that even people that would never dream of committing suicide are comforted by the thought of it during long nights. Somehow all of these things are connected... it's so subtle, I don't know how to explain it. I am so afraid of losing that I don't even want to have relationships, because I know that they will end... we are going to college soon and I will lose all this. If I didn't have friends, there would be nothing to lose...
I live so much in the past, so much in the future... I need to learn to live in the now.
I think that the only solution is to take every opportunity, always, always regret nothing. Then, though reminiscing will still be painful, there will be a sense of fulfillment in the past, and in the now, and a constant hope in the future...
oh but if I can survive this moment, there is the next, and the next hour, and the hour after that, always the hours... (that's from Michael Cunningham's book... very inaccurate quote as it's from memory).
It seems to me that all the suicidal and depressed people, especially authors in the world, realized something about the futility of life. And how can I hope, as Aristotle did, that something remains unchanged? How can I hold on to anything? The appeal of it, of ceasing, for a moment, to exist, of being unlimited potential...
Now we are all so hemmed in by our potentials, by our "liberties".
How can there be any satisfaction in my life when every memory, happy or sad, is horrible to me?
I have the vague sense that most people don't think about these things... I don't talk about them with anyone, as is obvious by my lack of being able to explain what I feel... it is something about the fragile webs of relationships that must end...
Virginia Woolf was half right. There is a comfort, in the ending of things, but there is also an unspeakable horror.
I look at my town, at the places I existed, and I see the ghosts of me and the people I loved, especially the people I loved and lost... and how can I accept that it's gone, all of it, that I've lost it all and cannot redeem it? How can I accept that every second, every new moment is an entirely new universe from the last, connected only by emotion, entirely disconnected by action or anything physical? I have existed so many times, in so many instants, every second I am reforming my existance...
What if I don't want to? What if I don't want to let go? How can I live like this?

And what of truth? Many philosophers say that it is universal... and how appealing, to believe there is one true thing... but we are so different, all of us, how can happiness be the same, how can fulfillment mean the same thing? Maybe Nietzsche is right... but how can his philosophy be right if his philosophy says the truth is different for everyone? Maybe we all need our own philosophies and that's the only truth... but how separated would we be then? We would be like islands, locked in our own realities, and there would be no way to reach anyone else, no way to touch them... but all change and loss would be so detatched... how can we tell a schizophrenic that his world is not real when he sees and feels and smells it with his own senses? How can we defy something so concrete as senses? We are all so convinced we're "sane", so convinced we've figured it out... what if the schizophrenic people are the correct ones? What if we're all schizophrenic and they're sane?

AHH my head hurts... but this is what goes on inside of it, this is the constant loss I feel exists in the world...