The purpose of art is to "hold a mirror up to nature." If this is true, then nothing I have read recently is art. For my life is nothing like the books I read. They are interesting, they are dynamic, they are alive. Paradoxically, my life is dead; it's gray, it's bland, it's nothing. And it will always be so. When I tried to make my life interesting, to make it like a book, I was faced with the inevitable: failure. In attempting to do so I was only deceiving myself. We have to realize that our lives will never be like those in a book. Never. Ignorantly, we suffer though each worthless section of our lives, clinging to the irrational hope that the next segment will be meaningful, will be fulfilling. And guess what? It never is, and never will be. You'll finish High School, and then what? Do you think college will be any better? Do you think that, at that point, life will somehow cease to be worthless. Keep dreaming. Just as you now hate school and look forward to college, you will hate college and look forward to a "real" job. And you will graduate, and you will find work. But will it be meaningful? Will you finally be content? No. So you'll slave away for decades, looking forward to retirement as your perpetual summer break. You'll tell yourself "finally I'll be able to be myself ... no worries ..  I'll soak up the sun." Bullshit. You'll be 65, probably in failing health. There will be no summertime bliss, no youthful joy ... just dotage, and the inevitability of death. But NO, that won't shake your insufferable optimism; you'll think that there will be something to look forward to in death. You'll lie on your death bed and wait for some moment of realization, wait for your ascension to God. But you'll experience nothing but a moment of pain, and then  ...