I don’t know why I grapple with this notice of life having meaning when I find all of the accepted meanings to be hogwash. Why delude myself into thinking I want to live for something when I know it is trivial to me in my heart. I’m too tired of life to make it poetic. After all, I know I hate living since the urge to drive off a cliff is as powerful as a siren’s call.
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The clichés about life being a blank canvas for you to decorate as you want come to mind…but I hear the Siren call too. They whisper sweet nothings into my ear about alcohol, ropes, and painless exits. About reckless abandon.
What is life about? Why are we here? I’m not 100% sure, and never will be. But what I am 100% sure about is that I’m going to die no matter what, and my time here comes ever closer to an eternal end.