I was born to be invisible. Like the stump of a sofa that gets tripped into and cursed then forgotten once again. I always wondered what it would be like to have loving, doting parents. Would I have grown to be such a loser?
Sometimes I wish I were anybody but me. Then I look at everybody else and wish I were just plain dead. Because if I were the happy type, I’d be oblivious to the world that enslaves me in a bubble where my greatest defense against reality is to push the ‘block’ button. And if I were born with a silver spoon I’d be as rotten as a carcass.
Maybe there’s a savior coming on the clouds. A merciful triumph to echo through killing fields. Or maybe we’re all just one big happy accident. The rise and fall of a plague upon the Earth. As the battle between faith and hopelessness wages within my soul, each breath is more difficult to bear.
I find myself fantasizing about death more often than not. Would the world be any different without me? Would it even skip a beat? If I cut the cord on the matrix tomorrow would I find myself stuck in a more hellish version of the hell I’ve known? Am I already dead? Is this all some big, sick, divinely-inspired joke? I can’t remember the day I died but I’m pretty sure I was never alive.
As I sit here pondering that which should not be pondered I become exhausted. I decide to go to bed… Forever… I wake up… Rinse, repeat…
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