What is life? When you get right down to it, is it just a cluster of days strung together in a seemingly endless fashion? Or is there a reason why we as beings are here? Do we all have the same fundamental purpose or are we all set out to do something different? I think I may have been a genetic mistake, spawned together by one fertilized egg that split into two, creating both myself and my twin brother. I think nature may have forgotten to delegate me a purpose.
In my life, I have never shown any particular skill or interest besides music, to which I proved to be extremely tone deaf and incapable of holding a steady rhythm. So if we as humans do actually hold a purpose relative to our own lives, and I do not seem to have a purpose, what is the point of continuing to live? I am not capable of loving another person correctly, so love does not give me reason to stay. I have no dreams in life except for which to travel, however, traveling is nearly impossible without a hefty supply of money. I hold no wish to start a family or sit at a desk for the rest of my life. Drugs and alcohol provide my only pleasure by that of a short-lived kind and always with repercussions. So by this logic, I have no will to live. Nothing that magnets me to earth. No feelings. No emotions. Nothing.
Now, I did not start this auto-biography for the sole purpose of to rant, although there will be many more to come. These memoirs are a journey; a choice between life and death. And because I'm sure that there is at least one other emotionally unstable lunatic like myself who chose to skim through my words, I'll keep writing.
YOU ARE READING
The Memoirs of a Chemically Imbalanced Seventeen-Year-Old
Novela JuvenilSad, sardonic, and to the point, you are taken on a journey through life as I see it; the good, the bad and the very bad.
