These thoughts of mine are not original. Recycled from the devil's tongue are my sorrows, a bastardization of death's good deeds.
To die is to be beautiful, to be whole, to be free from sorrow with little more than a grudge. But to die at one's own hand, that
is an ugly, disgusting act... These sorrows of mine are ugly, disgusting, spitting in the eye of all that is good; life itself.
And yet here I am again, indignant, going through the egregious act of writing goodbye.
People often have an aversion to the obvious: Those who want to live will do so regardless of the circumstances. Similar too are
those who want to live no longer. They will do so regardless of the circumstances. Dying is no sin in my weary eyes.
What am I to do with myself? Barely alive is my instinct to survive. Barely alive is my ability to think. Barely alive is I,
myself, in a world of the living.
All I have left is desire, desire to start anew. To destroy and perfect. Desire to return to being human, and only mortal. I am,
after all, anything but. I am the wretched imposter flying in the face of humanity. I am the lord and savior turning a blind eye.
I am the soil, tormented with drought and floods. The plants, torn and blighted, sick and missing an element I myself do not know.
I am all that is and isn't and will come and won't for I am not human.
In spite of my suffering, in spite of being sure to end up killing myself, I weep. I weep for nobody, I weep for nothing. I weep.