The truth is

10:15 pm. BP 159 / 104.

The truth is, life is boring. People are vengeful. Good things always end. We do so many things and we don’t know why, and if we do find out why, it’s decades later and knowing why doesn’t matter any more. Yet we push forward in a straight line, calmly surveying the mindscape we call home...the home inside of us. I am quite uncertain tonight. Tonight I type to escape. The bitter taste of the Klonopin that has dissolved under my tongue mixes with the mental picture of me sitting atop a large pile of books saying "it will get better buddy". It won't. We both know that. Let's just smile if we can right?

Mental vs Physical, chicken or the egg type thing. I am empty. My birthday is Monday. When you're young, you always feel that life hasn't yet begun—that "life" is always scheduled to begin next week, next month, next year, after the holidays—whenever. But then suddenly you're old and the scheduled life didn't arrive. You find yourself asking, 'Well then, exactly what was it I was having—that interlude—the fucked up madness—all that time I had before?

I am just floating along right now. Maybe I always have been. Maybe my words, poem, songs etc. were just a scream for severe help. Maybe they were nothing at all. You know, I think the people I feel saddest for are the ones who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder, who felt their emotions floating away and just didn't care. I guess that's what's scariest: not caring about the loss. Sadly that has become me. I am not afraid of last chapters, well...as long as it is my chapter. Come and get me!

We are changed souls; we don't look at things the same way anymore. For there was a time when we expected the worst. But then the worst happened, did it not? And so we will never be surprised again. No more shock for me Peter. None for me James. Yeshua, where in the hell are you this evening? I am trying.

The room is dark. It is now 10:23. I was watching archer and it all went wrong. Escape and pace, now hunched down and typing...the only light comes from this screen. Hurts my right eye. Sinus issue I think. Fucking SINUS!

I type to outrun it ya know? I have pages of journals of suicide notes from 2002 when this was all new to me. Most times I would start writing them and realize I felt better after writing a while. I kept them all. Funny to look back on. Actually sad to look back on.

After you're dead and buried and floating around whatever place we go to, what's going to be your best memory of earth? What one moment for you defines what it's like to be alive on this planet. What's your takeaway? Fake yuppie experiences that you had to spend money on, like white water rafting or elephant rides in Thailand don't count. I want to hear some small moment from your life that proves you're really alive.

[Agora1]

abomino13, Your post shows what's in your eyes. Sad and void of any emotion. Angry at what life has dealt you. It saddens me as well as to the number of people who have contemplated suicide either on paper or tried. Is life really that hopeless? It's true that there is no turning back the clock but how do we know what may be waiting right around the corner at any age?

I have a lot of best memories in my life. That is what I hold onto as a floatation device when anxiety and stress bring me down. There are many moments that make me feel alive on this planet. One of them being the 4 seasons of the year. I once wrote a poem called "Seasons".

Each season brings a story of what life is all about. It's nature's way of telling us what we can expect as we go through life. Anxiety may have robbed me of many things but in it's place came all the good people I've met along the way. Sometimes pain and hurt bring you the most incredible people you might not have met in a vengeful world. Life's not boring, it's a daily challenge. I know I'm alive everyday when I wake up and I am above the ground and not below.

I am grateful......

[Lbk64 in reply to Agora1]

You and I think alike Agora. You always seem to write the words I wish to write... That's ok, I'm glad you do it first, you do it better :))

Excellent advice!

[sweetiepye]

Hello Abo, I am 70 now so I have tons of wonderful memories and quite a few of the other kind. A happy one....Our house had a balcony with a tin floor off my parents bed room. It was wonderful on rainy days, but this day was hot and sunny. I was melting my crayons and mixing colors ,pushing them into different shapes, I remember doing this for several hours. I was quite content, lost in my endeavor. Even today I can get lost in my mind or an activity and I feel that same happiness. It is a gift I have been blessed with. Although my Father died when I was five I always knew more bad could come, but oddly enough when I nursed my brother through Cancer till he died, I had that same feeling of contentment. I knew I was where I was meant to be ,doing exactly what I wanted to be doing. We had a wonderful time and he had a peaceful death. It was another blessing. I guess my answer to you is, it's the small things you love and the people you love that remain with you

I hope you find peace, you'll find it inside yourself.. Pam

[Hardluck]

The road doesn't rise up to meet any man. Good luck my friend.

[jrcnpg]

Life is a choice. Happiness is a choice. Love is a choice. Exempting yourself from such facts is a choice. In his seminal work, 'The Myth Of Sisyphus', Albert Camus argued that there was only one philosophical question deserved of debate and consideration and that was that if we accept as a given, in a similar way to the theoretical physicists who must by definition accept that before the big bang there was nothing, that life is fundamentally absurd, we are given only one choice: accept the absurdity of life and make of it whatever we can or reject it and go down the path of those who see suicide as the only true choice they have. Human life is only as good as we make it. When the Prince Hamlet in his famous soliloquy, to be or not to be, contemplates the nature of existence, he does so to facilitate, in his mind at least, that yes, to be is a better option than not to be. And then that fabulous line, 'everything else is silence'. Which, of course, it is. For the whole of his life, Descartes was plagued with his own particular interpretation of dualism; is the mind organic, in other words controlled entirely and resident only in the brain or an entity in its own right. Cogito ergo sum. Maybe that is all there need be. 'Until human voices wake us/And we drown'