What’s the meaning of life? Is it a simple, common necessity that is mainly needed among the living?
Of course the definition of life is to live. You could say that for some people. Yeah, I’ve been one of those types of people who hate it. Hell, I’ve even tried to terminate my own. Who has the time to deal with a living, breathing individual like myself? And many people ask, “Oh no, why? Why? Why do you wish to take your own life, you have so much to live for.” Oh really? Have you really been inside my head and thought what I’ve thought, felt what I’ve felt and diminished the harsh feelings only for them to grow back another day? Simple-soul hearts can only take so much pain before it comes crushing down and strangling the life of thee. But, as you can see, I have failed at even attempting it because I am a coward. Death. It scares me. The mere thought makes me tremble and sweat as though it is pointing a gun at my throat and about to release a silver-kissed bullet through my trachea. Death is the only reason I haven’t killed myself. I am also afraid at the thought of losing breath. Breathing calms me down. It calms my senses. It helps me live and work. But if I can’t breathe anymore than I’m incapable of thinking and I panic. I’ve tried suffocation, doesn’t work. Self-mutilation: I’ve done to the point of pain, not death. I just wanted to feel the sting. Not take my life. But, what makes a soul want to continue living? Those who succeed in killing themselves had no true soul to begin with. They were hurt from the beginning ‘til the sorrowed end. But even at my times when I say I can do it, I can’t. My soul is my drug. I stick the needle in my skin and a luscious liquid flows through my veins. Of course, there is pain but it only hurts for a little while, then a rush of blood flows through me once more. But, if we could just close our eyes, and never wake up, still breathe, still see, still hear the wonders of life and all, I’d have killed myself a long, long time ago.
[Shakespeare: Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?]
Of course the definition of life is to live. You could say that for some people. Yeah, I’ve been one of those types of people who hate it. Hell, I’ve even tried to terminate my own. Who has the time to deal with a living, breathing individual like myself? And many people ask, “Oh no, why? Why? Why do you wish to take your own life, you have so much to live for.” Oh really? Have you really been inside my head and thought what I’ve thought, felt what I’ve felt and diminished the harsh feelings only for them to grow back another day? Simple-soul hearts can only take so much pain before it comes crushing down and strangling the life of thee. But, as you can see, I have failed at even attempting it because I am a coward. Death. It scares me. The mere thought makes me tremble and sweat as though it is pointing a gun at my throat and about to release a silver-kissed bullet through my trachea. Death is the only reason I haven’t killed myself. I am also afraid at the thought of losing breath. Breathing calms me down. It calms my senses. It helps me live and work. But if I can’t breathe anymore than I’m incapable of thinking and I panic. I’ve tried suffocation, doesn’t work. Self-mutilation: I’ve done to the point of pain, not death. I just wanted to feel the sting. Not take my life. But, what makes a soul want to continue living? Those who succeed in killing themselves had no true soul to begin with. They were hurt from the beginning ‘til the sorrowed end. But even at my times when I say I can do it, I can’t. My soul is my drug. I stick the needle in my skin and a luscious liquid flows through my veins. Of course, there is pain but it only hurts for a little while, then a rush of blood flows through me once more. But, if we could just close our eyes, and never wake up, still breathe, still see, still hear the wonders of life and all, I’d have killed myself a long, long time ago.
[Shakespeare: Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?]
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