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Sometimes I wonder if the world is mixed up. I wonder if death is the true life, and life the hell we try so desperately to cling to. Sure, some people have nice lives. They never want to go, sink into a sea of nothing and fade to a picture. Then there are the ones who wish they were never born. You pass these people on streets. Sit with them on buses. See them everywhere around you. Yet you would never really take a closer look and notice the dead expressions, the eyes that are filled with black holes of despair. You wouldn't see their wrists, cut up till the flesh is white and raw. The scars that tell stories of pain, the scar's that nobody wants to pay attention to. Then when you do notice these people, you are frightened. They are the voids in your perfect lives, the voids that suck you into a world of unthinkable peril. The voids you try to escape.
I walk down the streets like a ghost, there but invisible to the eye. You bump me and mutter a sorry, but do you really mean it? No, I didn't think so. Year after year my feet have touched these pavements, but what good has that done me? None. I can stare into the mirror and see me for who I truly am. I don't like it, and it makes me cry. I lose myself, plunged into the pupil of my darkness. Claws stretch out from inside me, ripping my self down and in. Sometimes I feel myself falling, and for a moment, I think that possibly maybe my prayers are answered. I am dying. Then I'm back, and met with hot tears that flood down my cheeks.
I have thought for quite some time now. Planned it all out. Nobody left to care if I went. So there I was. The darkness comforted me, and the dense air inside the shed wrapped around my body. From the few rays of light that struggled it's way inside the webbed window, I could see it outlining my wrists, and I couldn't help myself from looking down to see them in full exposure. Glittered purple and red, bumps rose off my skin and with my other finger I traced down the inside of my arm. I sometimes liked to play games with the thin trails, pretending it was a road map, and I'd have to find my way out of life. The rope tickled my cheek as I had swayed back uncertainly. I could have stopped. Turned back and headed back out, but a sinister voice inside me snarled about weakness, so I had clamped my jaw and trembling, stood up on the chair.
It rocked slightly under my weight and I froze. Turn back, I heard my voice scream. I couldn't let myself, though. It had to happen, it would all be over in a matter of minutes. All the pain and hurt would go. I lifted the rope over my head and let it nestle into my neck. The count down. Three. Two. One. I kicked the chair from under my feet and time slowed. I felt the rope curl around my neck and tighten, and a sharp feeling invaded my senses. I saw a meadow, then. The sight was hazy and blue, and I heard soft music playing. I wondered where my body was, because there was an emptiness inside of me, and the emptiness was filled with a sore ache. The sore ache of yearning feeling. Then before the meadow left, I felt something. A small tingle that turned into an explosion. I didn't need to worry about anything. I am a dead rain-drop, rising back up into the sky. This is it, I think. A moment's peace. Then it was black, and death's gates opened up for me.
It's truly amazing.
