I want to go home. To where I was before. Or, to wherever I’ll be after. Anywhere else is better than here. Where is here? It’s wherever I am. It follows me everywhere. It’s hollow, it’s painful, it’s numbing, and it is inescapable.
It’s not just a want. It’s a need. I need to be dead. Once I come to an end, so will everything else. Deadlines and disappointments (usually in myself), self-hatred will halt, and loneliness will leave.
I’ll no longer fill my mind with fantasies like hope, love, change, or growth. Those things are like unicorns; you can search your whole life, but you’ll never find one because they don’t exist. At least not for me.
It’s time to stop putting off my suicide. Why delay death when I’m already dead? All I’m doing is making it official.