Euthanasia (Kellic)

30: The Hoodie

Didn't Want To Lose You Once Again Didn't Want To Be Your Friend, Fulfilled A Promise Made Of Tin And Crawled Back To You

I'd been thinking an awful lot lately.

I really just couldn't stop myself; one thought just lead to another, eventually ensnaring me in a terribly vicious cycle - one that really just held no hope of escape whatsoever.

Even from the get go I knew that this was most definitely a very bad idea, but that of course didn't stop me; things like that never did quite ever seem to stop me. I think I was just very stubbornly ignorant, and I think perhaps that sometimes I was far too content, and even accepting of that, which in it's entirety was just absolutely fucked up to hell.

In addition, I'm pretty certain that by now I'm almost attached to this sadness of mine; the sensation of loneliness and despair becoming just as natural as the need to inhale and then exhale again. And the sadism only continues when I realise that perhaps I'd rather stop breathing than stop being sad altogether.

I don't think I can imagine myself without this sadness and depression weighing me down and pushing me to the floor. I can't remember what it's like to stand up straight and proud, to walk without wanting to collapse, to sleep and want to wake up again, to look at open window and not want to jump, and to find friends things over than tiny, sharp slices of metal.

That's probably just a little sickening and borderline disturbing if you look at in a certain light, but quite honestly I'm finding it very difficult to care, because I've swallowed myself up in this great beast we know as the human mind, and really there's no hope of me recovering from myself at all, ever.

I've been thinking an awful, awful lot lately.

I wouldn't recommend you try it. I really would not.

It swallows you up and then spits you out on the floor when you least expect it, and soon enough there's nothing left of you... nothing at all. And even then, you still just can't fucking die. 

You know what, sometimes it seems like my body's just fucking with me. Sometimes it seems like I could throw myself from the top of the empire state building and even then it'd still refuse to fucking die. God, I fucking hate this. How hard can it be, just to fucking die?

Perhaps it's not the thoughts swallowing you up part that's the worst, I think it's the spitting you out that really does the damage, because the why you're left after being detached from everything you could once have is nothing short of rock bottom.

And when you reach rock bottom, it's your friends that help you. And I don't try to stop them, in fact, I fucking embrace them with open arms, even though I know I shouldn't because honestly they're the only ones that give the slightest of fucks anymore, and I think I'm sad enough to cling onto that like it's my lifeline.

Honestly, I couldn't stop them even if I wanted to; they engineered to work like this, to fuck you up and make you bleed, and they make you want it to. They frame your whole mind as the culprit, and leave themselves the innocent friends that pick you up again afterwards.

I think perhaps that sometimes they're more enemies than friends, but that in no way changes my opinions regarding clinging onto them, because when you run out of hands to hold, you'll grab anything, even if the hands are venomous and full of secrets you'd never want to know.

I think perhaps I should stop thinking, but it's never quite as easy as that; your mind completely swallows you whole with no regard to how this will fuck you up. It thinks in the moment, and acts like a drug - beneficial right now, but will fuck you up later. And yet you still listen to its advice; honestly sometimes it's like I'm asking for trouble, and sometimes I think I am.