Sometimes the idea of death is like a warm, comforting glow.
The glow of a branding iron.
The room around me sways, as if I was inside a fish bowl. The walls are pulsing as tears fill my eyes.
I just need to let go. I just need to relax and accept that life didn't work out. Or maybe it did.
Maybe this is how it should be. Should I do it now?
No, I'll wait. I'm scared, of course. But it does seem comforting to give in to my courage and cowardice. But no.
I'll just keep living each day, waking up each day, after each night of tearfully gripping my pillow and sheets, dreading the day.
Every day is the same.
Day after day after day, it's the same. And for what?
Nothing.
If I try harder, I'm tired, and wasted my time.
If I give up and stop caring, I feel useless.
If I just try to get by, something terrible happens.
Nothing works out.
Everything is always worse than expected.
Each silver cloud always has a dark lining.
And that's why it rains.