/lit/ - Literature

I’m not afraid of the shotgun anymore, of taking up arms against a sea of troubles. My ticket to freedom. My ticket to somewhere that isn’t here. It is simply the most effective tool—I’ve seen the statistics. I hate to leave a mess, but I’d also hate to misplace a temple shot and blow out my orbital sockets with a 9mm round. Suicide is not a guaranteed escape from suffering, obviously; what dreams may come, I don’t know. The pale cast of thought begets what else but an experiment? Life isn’t so long. I could wait, I suppose. It’s other people who make me aware of the calamity of life. Schizoid dilemma. One dilemma among many. I want equilibrium. Can I find that in death? Isn’t death equilibrium? I know life only holds the same banal suffering in the future. I’m living to suffer and I am well aware of it, and I can’t even embrace it. I avoid it still. Avoiding the unavoidable. I want cancer, I want to be stabbed. I want to be ridiculed. I want to fail. Can’t I at least have some dignity and face it head on down a barrel, instead of waiting and flinching and trembling for another half a century? It isn’t going to go away; I need to do something.