So You Want to Die?

There was a time in life when you were in control of it all, you were a promising young man, with the world in front of you. You commanded reality, and joy seeped through your pours, at a time where poor didn't matter, because you guided reality and steered it to your liking. Poor and potential, only temporary words to kickstart greatness to be unveiled.

You were in the driver's seat of endless potential, the word itself was a badge of honor, measured by the lazy description of "so much" by those who witnessed the flame you carried. The embers of control boiled your blood, everything was such a rush, every minute a celebration of what YOU would become, the promise of YOU rushing to blossom. How stupid we are in our youth, when we know it all.

One day colors became obscure, and potential became a dream of the past, a reflection of the days of youth, everything was a blur, or an enslaved thought, to what could have been and what never will be, and in these days you clutched to thy endless knowledge, and thy fire, and THY sense of worth.

You learned about the world, and how dark it could be, how wrong things were, and how you would change it all. You always wanted to put the pain on your back, to carry the burden so others never felt the pressure of sorrow and madness. At times, you prayed to any God who would listen, to let you, and all your strength carry the load, too proud and too strong to succumb to weakness and the like.

And when you fall short of your dreams and aspirations, the fairy tale of a child phenom who shakes mankind and resets the scale of right and wrong, you want to die, to put the empty and worthless to rest.

"Well I should kill myself?" You'll say, because the world is bitter, steeped in commercialism and "Pop", and all of the people, wasting space and wasting minds will not listen, and will not bow, to the prodigy of you, and the greatness you bestow. The mediocrity will sicken you, because in the land of legends, people fall short, and you realize you live in times of dullards and pawns, those begging to be slaughtered without any knowledge of self or the power of the mind.

And whoa is you, and all of your misery, dealing with the terrible nights in heated rooms and endless feasts. And pity yourself for the horrible nights you spend smoking pot or drinking away all the pain. How merciless this God must be for you to suffer intellectual nights describing the mentality of man the the music that perks his ears. What a miserable existence it is, driving cars and chasing girls, sparking nuanced religion and debating the economic fundamentals only the rich knew how to spell only a few generations ago.

And whoa is you poor soul, in your ability to connect to a stranger across the world in the blink of an eye, and the terrible moment when you realize you can learn an alien culture overnight, or teach yourself a language, or learn thousands of years of History through your ancestors eyes, and find any answer at the tip of your tongue with the click of a mouse.

So die, and die you should, because the world will not recognize you as a great thinker, as a Shepard among the aimless flocks, same in the flesh but empty in their souls. Who could bear a life where you are the only one who is right about everything and has seen it all? Oh misery! Medicate and die, die slowly, kill the pain and let it all turn black in a romantic and perfect moment.

Race to the place where the is no God, because he has been dis-proven, abandon free will for the comfort of darkness and the infinite knowledge you hold. Oh you will live on, because your mind is so great and the world to small, you are infinite, and you know it, but nobody else does, so walk in eternity and perfection through the welcoming of a bullet, or a rope, or the thin slit up the arm's river.

What a terrible life, and it must end. The soldiers and the sick, helpless rape victims and the children without parents or food, who have spent every day thirsting or hungering for a day to live and not slowly die, how easy they have it, and how hypocritical they are to stay alive. Prisoners of war who hold on the face of a girl or the promise of a fresh breath, how wickedly they deserve to live and you to die. How harsh this life has been to you, modern bastard.

The stories and the adventure, it is all so fake, it's all so unreal, and all that exists is pain then death, so face it, because you know this is right, because you know it to be true.

And they will all weep, and wonder what could be done. Thy father will never forgive himself and thy brother will live the rest of life in misery. How they deserve to wonder for their rest of their being what they could have done to change thy path and to better thy world. The aching heart of a mother decades later, crying for days and days, she will get over your death, until she doesn't, ever.

How important you must be to ruin the lives of those who love you, because you are so un-worshiped, by them. By God, how they deserve the live every day in the pain you feel, and question themselves like you question yourself. God dammit they deserve it don't they? They deserve the burden you created and the mess you leave, God dammit they deserve it all, because they cared for you the whole time, even though you didn't care for yourself.

So die, and die you should, you selfish lump, because you are afraid of trying to live, and taking the chance to be what you are, and what you were always meant to. We all die soon enough, but don't take your time, because if you do, you might be convinced life isn't so bad after all.