I’m feeling suicidal. The existential depression is bearing down on my body and soul with its full force. I can barely breath. My attention span is reduced to fleeting scratches of stimuli. I loath the next breath.
I contemplate my death, and the sweetness it will bring, the ultimate finality of this slow agony that defines the shortness of life.
I’m sitting on my couch in Nashville, contemplating this existence, attempting to feel the weight of the unrelenting pain that I squeeze into the periphery as often and intensely as possible.
Everything about my life is horrifying. On some level I believe that all that I loathe can be resolved with the right attitude, but what I can’t get over is it’s eternal return.
Waking life is an abyss that consumes all that is thrown in, a sink hole that swallows all the earth, never allowing for sure footing and stable ground.
If only I could forget. How sublime the forgetful must live.