“Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” – Albert Camus.
Nausea. Boredom. Depression. Pains. Loneliness. Guilt. Anger. All I ever thought about was killing myself. I thought about it last year, I thought about it the day before yesterday, I am thinking it now and somehow I know I’ll never stop thinking it.
There’s this thing about life, about living, embedded within it’s core, an hidden code that tends to mess things up along the way. Why can’t things just remain perfect and people just remain true? How do happy moments turn out blue?
I get confused, and over time I give up trying to make any sense of life.
There were thoughts of pills, of a spiked knife, of dangling ropes, of guns and bullets, and of tall buildings.
Lurking in the corridors of my mind was gloom, hate and tiny whispers of hopelessness. I wanted to die and escape this pain. “Everyone would be better off without me.” “Everyone hates me.” “I am a failure, nothing works for me.” “I have to die.”
But then the idea of killing myself was just so much as nauseous as the alacrity to live on.
The idea of pills won’t suffice_what pills would actually work? = Postponed
I couldn’t undergo the torture of stabbing myself = Cancelled.
Hanging to me seemed lacking, I wanted my death to be tolerable = Not Accepted!
Process of obtaining a gun or rather having the skill to shot one would prove tedious = Cancelled.
Finding a spot to jump from, without the clamoring and pleas of people = tedious. It’s been weeks since I last had the heated vibe of dying, since I last felt the need to harm myself, but I’ll still have them nevertheless. Truth is I don’t wanna die just so much as to stop living for some moments.
I want to live and be happy, to write poems that rhyme, to have friends, to be true, to travel, to make mistakes and be given a chance to correct them, I want to love and be loved…
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