"
Don't tell me that I'm agitating things by writing about this, and rambling on and on about the same thing. I know that. You think I want to? I don't. It just happens. I've had enough, and life keeps feeding me more and more shit, in fact, it's coming in truckloads by the minute.
Every part of me just wants to tear itself from the other. I want to cease existence. Killing me would be a favor considering the alternative. Killing me would be a favor considering the life I would be living. Six feet under is the only refuge, the only source of repose.
Incoherent ramblings, yes. I believe so as well. Incoherent. That's my life. Incoherent. Everything never falls into place. I've been given a puzzle to solve, this life. And the pieces are designed such that I will go through it trying vainly to put the pieces in the proper places when in truth, the pieces I've been given have no proper place and do not fall into some kind of bigger picture. There is no bigger picture. All I have is a vision - and no things to put together to make it. It's not true that we make our own lives. It's just not. If we could, then I probably wouldn't be here right now, contemplating suicide as a write this bullshit.
God? Why hast thou forsaken me? ... It's true, you know. For some people, satisfaction, pure, unadulterated satisfaction can never come from an evil thing. But that only applies for people who can partly comprehend the beauty of what life is about. I thought that by taking more than the right dosage, I could end this all, and I could finally
rest in peace. I did. And I woke up after that. What is this? A cosmic joke? I don't want to wake up. I didn't want to wake up. And I did. Why? For what? There's no reason in me being here, and I want so much to just disappear. Whatever purpose left in my life is so menial, that I know that nobody could care, and the whole world wouldn't even bother.
Gandhi was wrong. What you do in life will be insignificant, and
it's not always important that you do it. I believe that living for me is an act of excuse. Not an act of purpose.
I've said that more than once, and I am sounding like a broken record. What do you want me to say? That's the truth anyway. There's no happiness here, except in the grave.
For me, at least. Don't tell me to change the way I look at my life - there is nothing here. There's only one way to look at it. My life is misery. Misery resulting from a set of misfitted excess pieces, each filled with tears, placed together to create an illusion of a picture.
I hope you're happy when I die. You fuckers.
"
The clock ticked: 6:15 AM