There’s a world of a difference between not wanting to be alive and wanting to die and wanting to kill yourself. I spend my days oscillating between the first two. My heart goes out to those who actually do want to kill themselves. I couldn’t imagine harbouring something that intense every day. There’s something so inherently violent in it, so shocking and silencing.
I don’t really hate myself that much, honestly. I can’t hate myself that much, because I still think I’m better than most everybody else. As much as I find it hard to find a point to my life, I wouldn’t wish to have anybody else’s life because I know it’ll be harder still to find a purpose to theirs. There’s nothing wrong with me as a person, despite what others might think, there’s just something wrong with the way I see things. It’s like there’s something missing in my brain. I can’t ever be truly satisfied. Nothing ever hits the mark. I don’t want for anything because I know nothing will please me. Life is just a bunch of distractions before you die, and while other people might be able to fully immerse themselves in their distractions, I just… don’t have that ability. One eye’s on what’s in front of me, the other’s on the ever-ticking clock. I’m all too aware.
I mean, let’s get this straight. I’m alive cause my parents had sex. I just hope they had a good fuckin’ time. Now, I’m just meant to live out my days. Nature probably intended me to have sex and produce some more offspring who could do the same and on and on. Fat chance. I’d drive a stake through my womb before propagating this disease. That, and I can’t imagine ever forming a real connection with anyone. Even if you take the shit social skills out of the equation, there’s just something missing. And what else is there to do? To avoid the mind numbing boredom of existence in between, we’ve got our little reward pathways, a sure fire way to keep us coming back drinking the kool-aid. But there’s something fucked up with mine. I canny be arsed. That’s it. That’s the crux of my existence. What’s the point? They forgot to slip the opium in mine. None of this is fucking fun. None of this keeps me coming back for more. I’m so fucking bored. There’s nothing in it for me. I won’t kill myself, cause I don’t want to shatter the illusion for everyone else. I’ll just live counting down the seconds in my head.
At some point we’ll all die out and we will never be remembered. It’ll be like none of this ever happened. We witness and we give meaning. Without us, all the sins of the world and all the joys shall be nullified. It will never have happened. Say goodbye to fuckin’ disneyland and subway stations and the Sahara desert. Nobody shall remember that hitler was a very bad man and nobody shall remember the way you cry yourself to sleep sometimes and nobody shall remember how the sun makes the whole world glitter like something else sometimes. It simply never happened.
So if that doesn’t matter, what does matter is what you feel and think right now because your hearts still beating and you can still make sense of what’s around you, imbue it with meaning. But I’m so fucking shit at that. That’s all I really wanted to say. All I’m here for is a good time and I’m failing miserably.