I had an interesting dream once.
Not a dream, exactly. It was a thought that crossed my mind late at night, the time when you start getting fuzzy. It was somewhere around 2 or 3 am. I was exhausted.
Trying to go to sleep takes a while. You need to ease yourself into slumber. It’s not something you can dive into.
So, in order to pull myself into that world, I was thinking. I thought of things that only exist in my head. Plans, hopes, fears, and everything in between.
Then, the words were dropped through my skull, like a stone through a pond.
I have to make a choice, I thought. I can either die or live.
Now, you must understand me, this wasn’t some sort of joke or lackadaisical wonder. I legitimately thought that I could make the choice to die in that moment. It wasn’t a drill. It wasn’t a test. I could either die or live. The choice was mine.
I chose to live.
Wait, wait, wait. Hear me out. I can explain.
Don’t blame me! It’s not my fault! It wasn’t completely my choice. It’s foolish to trust late-night voices in your head, especially on matters such as these. How could I know that this stranger would give me a quick and easy death? What if it had other plans in mind? I’m not particularly superstitious, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, right? I’ve heard stories here and there. Stories I’d rather forget sometimes.
Still, I made the choice myself. I chose to live. I thought the words. I made that stranger disappear. I didn’t want to die in that moment.
Didn’t I once believe that any fate is better than this? Any fate, even one crafted by demons? What changed my mind?
But perhaps I can push the blame further away. Yes, I might have chosen to live- but only because I was running on instinct. How dare this creature of shadow enter my home and put a (metaphorical) gun to my head? How dare? This is my home, my bubble, my safe place. I was shocked. I was outraged, even. Offended! I don’t appreciate night-people butting their heads into my business. If I want to tie a noose, I can do it myself.
But… even then… I have often wished for someone to put an end to me. I have often glared at cars on the road, as if inviting them to run over me. I have often wished that a murderer would take an interest in me. I have often prayed that the occasional feeling in my arms is some sort of terminal illness. It would be convenient. Suicide is disgraceful, cowardly, abhorrent. But natural death is acceptable, natural, perhaps even kindly. It just happens. Nobody can prevent a heart attack. Nobody gives you hotline links when you announce you’re sick. It just… happens.
This is all a pipe dream. That’s all. It’s a delusion. My words are mirages in the desert. They mock at me.
I can’t deny what I chose. I don’t really want to die. I can hope for an untimely demise, but I will never truly want it. I am not at the depths of my suffering just yet. Perhaps that’s what scares me. This could get worse. Much worse. I haven’t seen true pain yet. I am only a child, after all. A confused, scared, helpless child.
My problems aren’t that bad either. I’m in pain, of course, but so is everyone else. Why am I so deserving of death? Everyone else manages to suck it up. I’m the only one stuck whining.
Make no mistake, I am not asking for your pity. I am fully aware that this is all my burden. I am fully aware that this is all my choice. I chose to live that day. And now, I have to live with that choice. I have to live with the knowledge that I saw potential in living. I just have to repeat that same choice, over and over, wondering if it was the right one.
I know that death is still within my grasp. I know. I own a noose. The noose is pink. I got it from a craft box. I studied the hangman’s knot online. I studied what angle the drop works at best. I have nowhere to hang it… but I could probably find somewhere. That’s what they say about life, right? It always finds a way. The same goes for death. Just give me some time and a rope. I’ll figure something out.
But maybe I don’t want to touch the noose anymore. I haven’t run my fingers over that wretched rope in a long, long time.
I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking know anymore. I keep looking for answers where there are none. There are absolutely no answers. What is the purpose of life? Literally anything! Eating caviar could be your purpose! Killing and stuffing baby seals could be your one truth! It doesn’t matter! Do whatever the fuck you want! (as long as it’s morally good, of course.)
And I can’t live with that. I am restless. No, I am greedy. I have read about many philosophies. Some people believe in Nihilism. Some are Christian. Some dabble in Stoicism. Those people are HAPPY. Those people are satisfied. They have found the ground beneath their feet, and they are content to lay there.
But nooo, not me. Unless god personally comes up to me and shouts: Hey, I exist, I will never be content. I have turned over so many stones that the entire mountain has broken down. I have learned so many different points of view that I might as well become a cameraman. It’s infuriating.
And you know what’s funny? I have so many god damn options. I like drawing. I like writing. I like animals. I like clothes with tiny little goat skulls on them. I just have to choose something and stick to it. But I’m impatient. That’s the problem. Last post I was all like: yayyy patience hakuna mattata life is great, but now I’m sad. I’m sad and I don’t know what to do.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Not just this rant. I’m not sure where I’m going with anything.
I’m sure I’ll find something eventually. I’m just being melodramatic. I’ll be happy one day. That’s the thing about purgatory: it’s not permanent. One day, I’ll get out.
But for now? For now, I think I’m going to go to bed. I should get some rest before I make any more half-assed metaphors. Maybe I’ll drink some water. Stay hydrated, kids!