I’ve got a diminished ability to make sense these days. I see the world like an animal might. In images and ideas. As a result I don’t know how to put things in words sometimes. I don’t even know myself what I’m thinking. So I sit down to write to clear my head. To make some sense to myself.
Right now I’m considering suicide for some really wild reasons. I keep playing the scene in my head. I really want it. To suddenly stop, be gone in a second. I want to be with dead eyes. Bloody, unaffected, and non existent. I try to keep my thoughts in check by telling myself I’m romanticizing it, but I don’t think I am. That’s exactly what happens when you die. You vacate your eyes and you stop. There is no more time. Like sleeping but easier.
I don’t know how to make the decision. Nothing particular has happened in my life that might justify giving up now after hanging on all these years. I’m not even particularly depressed. There is just no end in sight. I’m always going to be battling myself. So it seems fair to exit now and save myself some pain.