I wish I were dead.
The pervasive notion that fills my consciousness. Drowning out all other forms of cogent thought. Choking to death the little joy left in a hollow, petty existence.
Moribund fantasies cloud my sanity. The pounding of a drum so loud, I have often mistaken it for my own beating heart.
Yet, here I am. A fully functioning, capable adult who, if one truly wished to do so, could easily bring to a close this tumult. This inner turmoil “bordering” on psychotic delusion.
Yet… here I am.
Which begs the question: Why?
Why am I still here? Is it fate? Is it a grand plan? Are you meant for more? Or are you, simply put, a pussy?
It can be as simple as that. There’s no need to ascribe some grander notion to it. No need to think on it further. There is a job that you say needs to be done. A job with a single purpose. Performable by even the weakest of minds.
Here I am.
I wish I were dead. More than yesterday and exponentially more than the day before, and if my record continues, exponentially more so tomorrow.
This is absurd. You are absurd.
Sorrow knows no bounds, it is said. If so, then why I am I bound by sorrow? A melancholy usually reserved for teenage girls and Danish princes, is mine.
As I stare across the haze of a smoke filled room being lit intermittently by the pull off of a cigarette, a clarity starts to pervade me. A clarity of purpose. A peace interrupts my normally bellicose mind.
Its too quiet. Please say something. Anything.
You are much too simple. You see black and white. Not the varying shades of grey that life is. Forrest was right, life is like a box of chocolates. One day, life is a pecan cluster with oozing caramel and sweet chocolate, and your life is a virtual diabetic coma of happiness. The next, well, I’m sorry, your girl is gone, you lost your job and, my good man, you have chosen a raspberry crème that tastes like what I imagine blackboard chalk tastes like, only grittier.
This is the crapshoot of life. Seven come eleven, daddy needs a new pair of everything.
You give everything you have and it is never enough. Happiness as an adult is unachievable. Only children and the clinically insane are capable. But even the latter have difficulty, as I may attest. It requires a certain type of mental case. The ones who are not aware of their surroundings usually have the best chance at happiness. One who is fully aware of who they are and what they are, not so much.
Blow after soul crushing blow we are beaten down to accept misery and lament as happiness and content. This is all there is. Get used to it. Make amends with it. And try not to kill yourself. It is a harrowing proposition.
Shadows on the Wall