Let me ask you a question. Do we like being miserable? I am writing a post on a suicide website. How does that strike the average individual? Obviously there is no such thing as an average individual. Members of this simulacrum of grief, of this meeting place of agony, come from very diverse and varied backgrounds. Some may get help and move on. I’m willing to bet a small percent have actually killed themselves. But why does any of this matter? Well nothing matters. You have seen a person on their last day. What does a person on their last day look like? Usually unremarkable. I enjoy toying with the thought of our anonymous selves, our semi-anonymous selves, and then us in public. Three different people who give off different impressions. I’m a pretentious snob anonymously, an elitist semi-anonymously, and a loser in public. In the modern world we can simultaneously communicate and interact with multiple people we’ve never met in the flesh who may live on entirely different continents without giving it a second thought. Maybe that guy you just saw go up the staff only elevator is the guy who convinced you not to kill yourself. Maybe that co-worker you really hate is one of your closest allies online.
We are creatures of habit. If we relish in the lust of death, are we alive? It’s soothing to feel like you fit in, it’s instinct. Even if it’s because you slit your wrists. May the opportunity arise you shall not take it, but fester. Reputation is everything. I have long black hair that often obstructs my view. In my mind if I fix my hair so I can see, I am weak. Why do I want people to think that I don’t care? So no one can hurt me. Even with this realization, I still try to not care. I live in my mind. So calculating and unfeeling, that I feel like I’ve been woken up from a deep sleep when someone talks to me. This does not happen often (obviously). Now I am thinking about my thoughts. Actively avoiding conversation is second-nature. The venom that comes with appropriation is cordial. We do bad things for literally no other reason or necessity other then because it is bad. Inherent evil is ripe.
If I were to start a band, I would call it Melancholy Neutral. This combination is true to how I most often feel. I take no joy in doing joyous privileged activities. I take no joy in life. Isn’t it predictable. I am sleeping with my eyes open, facing the cold tangent of the isle. Does this unfeelingness and sadness stem from my chronic pain, or does my chronic pain stem from my unfeelingness and sadness? Does it really matter? Since we cannot define physical pain in the literal sense, if pain is psychosomatic it might as well be harming you. Unless you have a will to live but I presumed that we all knew that the prerequisite to this conundrum is that you don’t care about your own well being. I have felt constant pain for 2 years. Millions of seconds. Yet PAIN is just a word. I cannot describe pain because PAIN is PAIN. What does a sledgehammer to the stomach feel like to you? I don’t know, I’ve never had it happen, we both have different receptors, and everything is subjective. If there was a way to describe my stouch lifestyle, I would like to kill myself. I have no plan after graduation, really. I might work a desk job for a few years, and then kill myself. Or become a salesman for a few years, and then kill myself. Or do nothing for a few years, and then kill myself. All options end with what society would describe as “A Wasted Life”. The pain and headaches and grief and aches and agony are so strong, that if I were to ever get better, I would still want to kill myself. I don’t know if this is common to people who have had dramatic events happen, but after so much waster potential and so much sobbing you tend to make up your mind.
I could keep typing. No, I really could. Tis the curse of youth that I must refrain.