Signing Off
2024 is just a few weeks away. Friends have been encouraged to see me hanging on so long. I'm glad for them. At the same time, I'm frustrated and discouraged. Life has been anything but a bowl of cherries for me the last few years, and my tolerance for the grief that comes with continuing to live has expired.
I've done my best to occupy my time in meaningful, pleasant ways, but I've run out of ideas. One by one my hobbies have gone away, for one reason or another. I screwed myself out of modeling. My ex tried to get me into watercolors, only for me to find that it creates considerable eyestrain. I've lost interest in most everything else—musicmaking, illustration, poetry, webmastering... I might have been fine just sitting around reading all day, but like painting watercolors, reading bothers my eyes. And I don't have the finances for books on tape. Even just watching videos has become a chore.
In short, I have nothing left to do.
It's pretty sad for a verbose individual such as myself to admit writing is no longer interesting, but that's where I am now.
Wait, what does that mean, given that here I am writing about myself? It means this is more than likely the last thing I'll ever write. I feel as if I've said everything I'd ever want to say, and then some. The well has run dry, and the pen is soon to follow.
My life has been one long, nearly unbroken, ultra-slow-motion train wreck, occasionally interspersed with all-too-brief flashes of fun, excitement, joy, triumph and love. It would have been nice if there'd been more of them and if they'd lasted a little longer, but I got what I got. I should be thankful I'd had any, I suppose. Others have had it way worse than me, and undeservedly. Yet there are those who've enjoyed wall-to-wall good fortune—also undeservedly.
Some likely regard me as likewise undeserving—of anything—because I do not cherish every millisecond I still live; I scoff at the "gift" of life. To me it is no gift. It is, instead, a curse. That I'm hardwired to continue living is a form of torture. This I've felt for as long as I can recall.
Part of me wishes I'd been born a poor starving child in Africa or India, because having a comfortable home with food and clothing creates a maddening dichotomy when paired with emotional anguish. At least the starving child has no awareness of that carrot and the stick... just the stick.
Given a choice between that and being born with a silver spoon in my mouth, however, I'd take the former. Most children of privilege tend to grow up as assholes.
Of course, all of this babbling is useless. There's no changing anything that's brought me to this point. Nor is there much of anything I can do to alter what's to come. I only wish for death to arrive sooner rather than later. Not only is life now unpleasant, but also pointless. When I awake in the morning, I curse my heart for continuing to beat. Please, stop already. I am done.