I so want death. I need a release from this pain.

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to be free, living instead of sitting with discomfort for the rest of my life.

I cannot tolerate one more day of feeling my whole body shutting down. It’s like my mind is a house and each windows were closed, one by one, until nothing gets out and no light comes in.

Yet, I cannot hurt myself. My body already aches so much. It screams with me, bursting into headaches so strong that I wish I have no head at all. Like a whole war is going inside me, I’m a casualty, stranded with my existence.

I keep thinking about how sorry my existence is, and how silly I am.

I want to die but I cannot kill myself.

Maybe someday, maybe never.

But thinking of death is comforting. I can tell myself that one day it all will be over. I don’t have to risk being happy because it will not matter. I will have peace anyway.

Perhaps dying is the form of love. I grant myself liberation, and privacy. I could finally go to somewhere no one can follow me. I will be free. Finally.

Right now, I’m writing.

Writing is risky. I have to confront my thoughts. Which include my slimmest hopes for joyful living. But I so want death. I don’t know who wants me more anymore, death or life.

I wanted to write more. But now I cannot.

I don’t know what’s going to happen after I stop writing. I wish nothing happens. Death or living, they’re all the same.