How could I define the difference between the peaceful and miserable?
I thought I had led a simply peaceful life despite the few addictions necessary to this name of "life".
But who could prove that it was not simply a shabby existence devoid of interest? Which lack of that little spark, which sometimes became a bigger fire, that little burst of madness that pushes us to do things that make our lives thrilling.
Well to answer my question, I don't know how to ask this one; If I were to die tomorrow, how would that impact life?
Not much I think.
Defining the importance of my existence by imagining the importance that my disappearance would have had became my favorite pastime, in a way.
This idea of death being the only way to prove my own existence obsessed me more and more, it quickly became quite unhealthy.
And this is the very reason why the judgment of the answer to this question was distorted.
And by obsessing in this way I had wasted the last chance I could have had to make my death something that would leave a more important imprint on the earth than my life ever could have.
By becoming this being almost mad with his obsession with death I lost the little interest that others might have had in me.
Who would care, no rather, who would show astonishment or any surprise, when the one who had made death itself his muse would finally end up in its arms?
All that would come out of it would be quotes to the effect that we always attract what we fear the most.
This would have been the most possible scenario, the ideal scenario, the inevitable.
This was the course that things would undoubtedly have taken if life was not always so full of unexpected events even when it had been peaceful, or miserable, until then.
*
I cannot say that I did not enjoy living the life I had until then, it was simply the norm of life at my time, as much danger as exhilarating pleasure.
Lives passing to the rhythm of receptions, theater performances, dinners and the hardness of maintaining a reputation.
Fortunately it was the time in full bloom, new things in spades, the renaissance of hobbies, to kill the boredom of the men's and women's of this society and fill their lives with activity allowing them to keep the desire to keep it, this life.
Maybe all these things were passing over my head. Given that my only hobby at that time was to despise life.
Distraction and hobbies were no longer enough for me.
All these things so well explained and without incomprehensible mysteries could stimulate my being.
So it was quite natural that in my nights plagued by the wanderings of the mind that I found myself again questioning the greatest mystery of this world.
Death, as old as its concept was, never on this earth has anyone ever been able to fully explain it.
We are content to say that it is inevitable, without trying to ask why. We accept it as it comes, some, and I am a part of them, even go so far as to seek it out themselves.
And after that?
The question that remains.
Who did he after that, no one has ever been able or willing to answer it.
Often, on the verge of despair, we think that death is our only solution, but we forget the prudence necessary for the wishes we want to see accomplished.
I found death and by experiencing it I realized that it could not always be the solution,
I finally had what I wanted, yes, but to the detriment of everything else.
The sacrifices made were not up to the reward of my will.
I had lost everything only to receive in return a pale reflection of life.
I had exchanged the days and their sweet sunshine for the eternal coldness of the nights of damnation.
All this because during my lifetime I was nothing but dissatisfied, incapable of being satisfied with the simple pleasures that it offered me.
I was the worst idiot of all.
My only true sin was the worst of all, I betrayed myself and destroyed my self to finally realize the futility of this desire that I had of wanting to change the unchangeable thing that was, my own life.
And since then, that sin only bring me to more.
Maintain life in the corpse which is my body, by filling it with that of those who are still alive.
Even if I have the possibility of letting myself die, who can have enough courage or the desperation to give themselves to death a second time?
