You try to occupy yourself as much as possible, for you fear the silence, it bears down heavily upon you, threatening to be the stones in the pocket that won't let you bob back to the surface. The mirror moves you to tears, and you don't click your photographs for they start another orgy of thoughts about how and why you look like this, why aren't you thin enough, these and a million more thoughts resurface from under thoughts, where you'd buried them.
While people pat their backs, you lash yours. Not that it yields any joy, but it is an excellent way to kill time. Hanging on the crucifix of reality since eons ago, yearning for the day when this soul shall no longer be thine. And then you laugh at your own yearnings, for where words don't leave you, how then, will your soul do?
The unsocialness is not the cause of your love for solitude, whether it be its effect. The cause of the love for solitude is the infinite self-doubt. Maybe even for the unsocialness. For you continually dissecting your soul. For the unending bead of thoughts. For every pain, every weakness, every bad fortune. If not stopped now, I'll end up writing that the very cause of existence is self-doubt. And the cause of this self-doubt is the fear of being ordinary. Just another name. Just another face in the crowd. But even if being common be a disease, by no means is it a sin. Self-doubt is also a disease, not a sin. But then if given the choice between disease and sin, which would you choose?
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Justified
Non-Fiction---------------------Trigger Warning------------------- Originally titled 'All the Push You Need (and a little more)' this book intends to do what it says. It'll help increase your cynicism, deepen your depression, give strength to your demons, help...
