I know with unqualified certainty that I want to die. But I also know with equivalent certainty that I won't do anything about it. That I will only remain here and wait for death to indulge me.
I believe: I am less fearful of being alone than I am of not being able to be alone.
But I know I will do neither; nothing. I have all the time in the world, and yet, I can't be bothered.
I decided that if I didn't allow myself to fall asleep, then I wouldn't have to wake up again and despair.
It’s time to accept that I am average, and to stop making this acceptance of my averageness into a bereavement.
How easy to be electrocuted. How fine the line between beauty and peril.
