You'll Never Know How Badly You Make Me Want to Die

February 7th, 2018; WUW

Last week was a rough week. A lot happened in the space of the nothing that transpired on top. I'd love to say it felt like I was floating but I'm afraid my feet are firmly planted. I'm stuck. I'm stuck trying to make heads or tails of what I've been presented. Things are "good." Many of my concerns have been alleviated in terms of necessities for living. It was honestly a bit touch and go there for longer than I would have preferred but so is the way. I have a friend. The one. Been a while since I've had one. Since I've had anyone to talk to really. I've recovered some semblance of my former creativity again. I'm writing again and even sparingly pick up the pencil and sketch a bit. Things aren't bad. Anyone notice the decrescendo?

I won't say I haven't felt this kind of sad or down before because I have. It's just that there's something else tangled in with it. This would be the paragraph that I'd take to give the flip of everything I listed previously right? Symmetry. Balance. But it's more than that. Not this paragraph no. The break that has formed. I've fallen into a place all too familiar. A place made familiar by the burst of content I produced prior to my last fall. Thank the internet! I have documented, my rise and fall--see upcoming tumblr throwbacks. It puts a lot into perspective. That sounds nice but really there isn't a lot. It's simple. It has always been simple but I seem to always find myself so easily swayed into forgetfulness. This world isn't for things like me. I will always be on the outside looking in. No one will join me. Commiserate with me. Save me. Kill me. Because even if there were one who tried, I'd never allow it. My pain is my burden. And I'll just have to take solace in knowing that eventually I'll absorb enough to get beyond this propensity for saving others. That eventually I'll get to die. That eventually I'll be able to kill myself for real.

What's so wrong with appreciating death? I keep asking myself that. I mention it's on my mind and immediately, conversations shift. What's so good about living? The potential for happiness? And if I were to die next year? Next month? Next week? Tomorrow? Today? Would the potential happiness alleviate the decades of pain and misery? What makes suicide so wrong? What makes it such a litmus test for the broken?

What am I living for? I can't seem to find a reasonable answer. Because he hasn't saved enough people? Because I'm still attached to this world in some way? Because I get off on the pain of living? Take your pick. Each as ludicrous as the last. I live because it's less of a hassle. Because I don't have the means to wipe myself from existence without some inevitable fallout. Not yet at least. I made the mistake of letting people in. I made the mistake of acquiring associations. An association.

A friend.

Everything is cyclic. Just like every friend before things seem to be going just the same way.

The means to survive but lacking substance. The drive to create but without feeling. A friend I can't confide in. Just like before and the time before that. It's me. I'm the commonality. The world's not broken. Just me. It was always me. And just as every time prior, if I can just accept that truth, I may find a way forward.

I love how much she makes me want to die. How it hurts to be with her. How alone I feel with her in my life. How I'm reminded time and again, and this time again, that happiness isn't for things like me.

I love her because she makes me want to die.

I love her because she reminds me that even at my best, I'm undesirable. How every smile I bring to her face bleeds me more as I sacrifice what little is left of myself to wear the facade. You're the only one smiling anymore. But that'll change. Peace will come in death. I can only hope.

My last hope.

I'll be set free in my death.