I just want to leave this world.
I don't need your pity, or your help. What I just need, is someone to listen. Just hear me out, and nothing more. All I need is for you to open your ears and just let the pages mellow into your mind.
People who want to leave this world always give up for the same exact reason, the one reason everything accumulates into, the one reason that bonds us, in life or death: the world is rough. Things are chucked at us like a rock, and it's as if we were angels forcefully clipped of our wings for a sick experiment of faith. But we just want to go home, and some of us do make it.
Whether it be we've experienced something so traumatic that it scars us for the coming future, or lived pasts that feel like a pack of burning cigarettes pressed against our searing wounds, or sit in a present that blinds us in a cloud of desperation, we just want to go home. Life isn't worth living.
"Why is life so bad? How is it so bad?"
Some of us walk through mud we don't want to clean off, so we shove our shoes in the closet so we don't have to relive the memory or allow anyone to see it. But I'll give you this: Life to some of us is like money. While those with a better worthwhile have cash to spare, it's thrown around and crumpled and eventually its worth becomes nothing to the world it desiccates in. A beggar? A beggar is handed a coin and cherishes it for as long as he could live. Not a scratch, not a dent. That coin stays priceless. That's what life is like. For some of us, we're cash thrown around until we've felt like nothing. For others, or a majority, their life is like a cherished coin without a scratch.
Nobody's perfect though, huh? That's true, although I like to doubt that. Maybe somewhere there's really somebody living in a castle scott-free with the world at their hands. And I envy them. But here I stand, living life through a glass eye that's smudged in bugs and dirt. I sit in the dead in night and watch the world crumble through the screen. My mind fills with parasites as the darkness opens a hole in my head that allows creatures to crawl inside my brain and carve all these words into the walls. I stare at those with love in their eyes while I sit in the middle of the field, the sunset my only love as it makes me smile knowing I'll never experience it again.
Growing up scares me, but I'm not ending it to escape the inevitability of time. Sometimes I believe I'll just relive that inevitably over and over until the universe ends, and I'm okay with that. I just want a life that isn't so rough like this one. I'm escaping the boulders constantly hurled at my spine. I'm escaping the chasing sickness that constantly claws at my throat. I'm escaping the words that march around in my brain.
"But don't you have friends? People that love you?"
When it seems like people have something, they might actually have nothing. Although I'm thankful for those kind enough to give me shards of their cups, my drink still slips through the cracks no matter how much I try to glue it together. And when I try to squeeze it in place, it only shatters. My gift to them is the shards they gave me, with a piece of mine. Call me selfish, I no longer relent at the thoughts or words hurled at me, but I don't want to keep walking over waves just to reach an island while consistently getting knocked miles back to shore. I hope they enjoy their paradise, though. I'll make a pretty sunset, won't I? A final goodbye to those who gave me their hands. I used to hear a simple song, that was until they came along. Now in its place was something new, I heard it when I looked at them.
But, this is everything my splintered, bloody hands could scribble out. You might think, "So, are you really going to end it?" I already have. This is my book, and here you are, aren't you? No more pages lie beyond what I have sketched down, only blankness.
This is the end of it, you've reached the end.
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This was inspired by those tik tok prompts and this was like what would you write as an ending if somebody read the book of your life, something like that.
