Hopeless?

Mike asked me once if I was as hopeless as I seemed. I didn’t know how to answer that, I still don’t, in a way. If I have no direction, what need have I of hope? I do not deny myself pleasure, I try to indulge in small sensual pleasures when I can. I also indulge in pain, (all actors are masochists, btw) and I know I exist because I hurt so much. I am very prone to depression, a trait I have unfortunately inherited from my mother. Depression for me, if bad enough, becomes physical pain, a wrenching agony of the limbs and soul. I don’t fight it ever, I cover it up, which often causes me more pain. If you see me going out reveling night after night, it is because I try to hide it in celebration. But it is not a mask, because I celebrate my pain and interlace it with pleasure. I sacrifice my cerebellum for things that are concrete and abstract at once. I sacrifice for the real and symbolic (psymbolic?).