If only I were better off dead.
Two months and counting; it seems like decades since my life has seen any sort of light shine through. Yet the world outside the four walls that encase me in refuge continues moving, never stopping, even if just for a minute. It’s odd, but something I’ve become accustomed to over the years whenever I go through periods of reclusiveness. It almost feels as if I’m not a real person, but a lone apparition inhabiting a niche to which its wandering eyes survey the surroundings around her (with something akin to envy or fear). I haven’t quite been able to sleep either, and have pretty much given up on my usual daily routines altogether. Everything just seems so tiring, and I don’t know how to wake myself long enough to accomplish anything. What’s worse is that I’m left feeling like I’m in search of something I’ll never find, increasing the melancholy clouding above my head like an ominous halo. I’ve even been contemplating suicide, something I haven’t seriously done since my freshmen year of high school. But it’s not that I wish to die, rather, I’m trying to find a solution that I can’t seem to find here on earth. It doesn’t help that I am constantly told how useless I am on a daily basis, a rich bum who does nothing and is still fed, clothed, and sheltered. These words of course are said in a joking manner, but we both know it is anything but. And it’s times like these when I wish I had the balls to run and make something of myself, or kill myself in a way that leaves me unidentifiable so as not to bother my family with trivialities of my death.
