Status: This thought keeps me going, that my life is my own, suicide is not an answer, and should not be pursued as such
Writhing
In This Skin
My eyes have become numb to the light of day. And as the sun penetrates my eyelids, no matter how tightly shut, I feel it's presence in me as that of a plague. Within my core lie bones ripe for taking, as they have done nothing for me but bear the burdens of my mortal being, carrying the weight of existence, and succumbing to the pressures of time. Every moment a test to see if I can last another, beckoning me to do what I must. Because there is only one way my story can end, and it is at my own hands.
My physical body cannot bear the burdens of my mind, of the memories written upon it with a scalpel, leaving proof of my mistakes, of what I have done wrong. My skin a layer of protection, keeping me safe from the forces whom wish to see my end, standing around me, in the manner a jury, awaiting my sentence to be carried out. Because they know how this story will end, and though they have waited an eternity longer than even I have been, their eyes still gouge me with anticipation, not solely for my demise, but that it will bring me to their world.
I am not a man of means, nor do I do without. I am central, within the world my place is below an insect, as an insect knows what it is to do, and will do that task until the day it dies, and it will never know why, and that is what drives it. But as I sit here I am not moving towards a goal. I do not feel compelled to do, and even less so to be. What I move towards is my own end, because it is all that can be assured in life, that that life will be taken.
And though God has decided my time, and waits for my return to the oblivion between what I am, and when I am not, I will not give him the satisfaction of bringing me there. For though my life means nothing, and though my days are numbered, I have resolved to choose that number. My life will end on my terms, and I will break the bonds of time and the physical world which has tainted my soul, and become nothing, which is more than I am now.
My physical body cannot bear the burdens of my mind, of the memories written upon it with a scalpel, leaving proof of my mistakes, of what I have done wrong. My skin a layer of protection, keeping me safe from the forces whom wish to see my end, standing around me, in the manner a jury, awaiting my sentence to be carried out. Because they know how this story will end, and though they have waited an eternity longer than even I have been, their eyes still gouge me with anticipation, not solely for my demise, but that it will bring me to their world.
I am not a man of means, nor do I do without. I am central, within the world my place is below an insect, as an insect knows what it is to do, and will do that task until the day it dies, and it will never know why, and that is what drives it. But as I sit here I am not moving towards a goal. I do not feel compelled to do, and even less so to be. What I move towards is my own end, because it is all that can be assured in life, that that life will be taken.
And though God has decided my time, and waits for my return to the oblivion between what I am, and when I am not, I will not give him the satisfaction of bringing me there. For though my life means nothing, and though my days are numbered, I have resolved to choose that number. My life will end on my terms, and I will break the bonds of time and the physical world which has tainted my soul, and become nothing, which is more than I am now.