Sometimes I wonder: why am I still alive? I believe mortality is everywhere and yet it’s weird I’m still here, living, breathing, and committing the same mistakes over and over again.
From a spiritual perspective, I believe I am still alive because I have a purpose. I have a mission to fulfill, and I haven’t carried it out yet. But what is that purpose? Why am I still here?
I’m tired. I’m tired of living. Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I played the role of emotional plaything one too many times? I’m tired of hoping, of waiting, of expecting, and ending up disappointed. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.
In the room I am staying at now [my mom’s], there are at least 12 things here that could kill me. One of those things should just smite me. One of those 12++ things should smite me and beat my worthless body to a bloody and unrecognizable pulp. If some supernatural force won’t lift the lamp and slam it down my head, maybe I should just do it myself.