01:03am
I think I’m ready to die.
There’s really not much else that brings me pleasure, joy or fulfilment. I can’t entirely say what I’m even living for anymore.
I’m just existing in this world in a futile pursuit.
I think I’m ready to be done.
To say I don’t care about living a childfree life would be a lie. I’ve pictured my life and this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I don’t care about a God’s plan. This isn’t my plan.
This curse that’s been cast on me, I still don’t know what I did to deserve it. I’m scared of my own thoughts. I’m scared to imagine. Scared to dream. If every single positive, hopeful thought adds more doom into my future, then what am I supposed to do with myself?
What is the use of existing if I’m not allowed to think of my future? What is the use of existing if my inner voice is to be my undoing?
If I cut myself and I bleed out, will that be the comfort I need?
Should I just overdose and call it a day? A year? A life?
Can I just be done with this bullshit? I’m ready to die.
Let me just die.