I've become something I thought I wanted to be so many years ago. I'm able to turn my back to someone suffering right in front of me, become unaffected by the tears of a mother, bitter and angry, no longer scared at the rage of a father; unconcerned with the plights of a sibling; unaffected at the loss of a friend.
It's all boiling under the surface, I don't know how much longer I can keep it all contained. I want to die so badly in one moment, and in the next I can't help but cling to life. How much worse does it get; how much worse does it have to get before instinct steps aside?
Parts of my plan are all falling into place, but it's been harder then I thought it would be, and I knew it would be hard. I'm not a monster, just a sheep in a gillie suit. I find myself wishing I was born with the claws instead of pretending that I have them. In real life I'm drama free, I would be the last person anyone who knows me would suspect of writing all this melodrama in a journal. It's kind of like lifting the lid off the kettle, it feels nice to let out some steam.
Suicidal ideation, what a grim fascination, never ideation manifestation, what a cowardly preoccupation.
You're a coward if you do, and a coward if you don't. I'm remembering a quote from a total war game I used to play. "Few men are born brave, many become so through training and force of discipline"
Maybe it's no great sin to be a coward, but the ultimate sin to die one.
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