Suppose for a moment that I'm already dead. And that everything around me that I perceive as "living my life" is, in reality, hell. Then I'm already in hell. Nothing is real. But it seems real enough. That's how the mind plays tricks on you. Since I am already dead and in hell, from which, ultimately, there is no escape, then if I kill myself,...commit suicide in this hell,...then there is no real consequence as far as living is concerned since I am already dead and in hell. I'd simply be dying again. Or maybe I've gone through this mindset several times previous, killed myself off, only to wake up in an even worse hell. What was the previous hell like, that this one is actually worse? What will the next one be? The only thing I can, perhaps count on, is that it will be worse than this shit I'm in right now.
I am a nobody. No one cares about me. No one loves me. No one gives a fuck. I've never felt so alone and worthless, ever. I don't want to live anymore. That's my mantra, day in and day out. I. Don't. Want. To. Live. Anymore. I pray that someday soon I have the guts to swerve off the cliff, into the center divider, or into the friendly stationary lightpost. Since I've already died, this won't make a fuck of a difference to anyone I've known because they have long since forgotten about me shortly after I died the first time. I never really mattered to anyone.
Anything would be better than what I'm going through now. I suppose I've said and thought these same thoughts all those other times I've offed myself previously. But now I don't feel so weird about things. I'm already dead and in hell. So killing myself only turns off the imagination, and then switches it back on in an even worse hell.
None of you are real. None of you could possibly care for this soul because you're non-existent. You're all part of this crazy hell I'm stuck in. And I'm getting out of it now. At least things seem a lot clearer to me about what this actually is. Fuck All.
