| The more I live the more I wish I were dead. After a certain experience I now see how truly feeble I am. If the dark ages were now I would surely be dead. My heretical ideals, my pathetic body thoroughly unsuited for any type of physical strain, and my poor immune system as a child, all gifts of a spiteful “god”, one that I do not believe in. For what kind of malevolent creature would grant someone such a jocular physique, and then, to add insult to injury, insight into his own pitiable state? What type of being would grant a mind capable of deceiving when one can only deceive himself? To receive now such clarity is much a godsend (or at least a break in the wall of society’s ignorance). But such a blessing seems more like a lingering decline into dementia than anything of merit. This type of thought is object of scorn, something that the crazies say. Yet I, who am not fully mad, am saying it. What good can come of it? Nothing. To ramble so. Though I cannot escape the fact I am doomed to mundane drudgery for my life, albeit probably a short one. And also condemned to not copulate, for who would want to with a loser such as I? No one. Now I wonder, what kind of note I would leave if I were to terminate my own miserable existence. Maybe something like this, but in blood. No, that’s too much effort. I could reuse this in a couple years while in a drunken stupor or dysphoric binge. I would surely like to die. There’s really nothing else. Maybe I’m just distraught. Maybe later. Yeah I’ll kill myself later. |