S. Beckett – Waiting for Godot

E: Nothing to be done.

V: I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. 

There are two ascpets of this little orgy of hopelessness. One is to actually acknowladge that there is no point in existance whatsoever, that we go on aided by some deceitful aura of possibilities, when there are none. Not even suicide as it is, in fact, an act, an effort, a decision. 

On the other hand you can assume an opposite conclusion. It is the wild search for now opportunities, for true inner self and some other life-changing revolution that summons the misery. Why not try being happy first, with whatever is at hand and don’t cry becouse of crooked expectations.

It’s the same good ol’ half-empty glass dilema. Anyway the more realisitc answer is that the full/ empty aspect doesn’t change as much with a person as with a year / month/ day / hour. With literature it’s diffrent, we have constant half-empty authors and there is nothing wrong with it.

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