/lit/ - Literature

I wish I was never born.

My body is am endless chore, which I must address through being embedded within a society of which I hate, in which all manner of authorities and oppressions bear down on me.

And for what? For the chance to strive after an ephemeral taste of happiness only to have it slip as soon as its grasped? And in the context of a temporal body, aging through time, steamrolling towards an inevitable confrontation with my own mortality which renders the whole ordeal meaningless? And at constant risk of contingent harm - the everyday sickness and injury and accidents and diseases that lurk behind every movement.

It is a hellish state with no recourse - not even suicide. To inflict violence upon oneself in order to render one's body inert, as if to approximate the pre-birth ocean of disembodiment, would be nothing but a cruel facsimile - death doesn't erase embodiment, it is merely embodied violence. For all to see and deal with.

My mother will fucking pay for this crime. Plata o plumo.