Most of the time it’s hurting me, and even when it isn’t, the high’s aren’t worth it. I spend a lot of time thinking and talking about giving it up. But when it comes down to it, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. I’m hopelessly addicted to living. Or to the idea of living. How could I possibly let go of that next sunrise? Those cherished memories and long-dead dreams?
Though I know it won’t be worth it. And I won’t make the most of it. Because I’m broken, and in pain, and most of the time I just want to numb it all away.
Life could’ve so easily been good. Just a few small adjustments to reality. But it isn’t. It’s one long procession of discomfort and decay. But still I won’t let go. Only when it’s far too late, when I’m in constant agony and too crippled to end myself, will I finally be convinced of the need to.