Being alive is terribly exhausting.
When was the last time any of us closed our eyes without fretting about the day to come? Can we recall the time when sleep was merely a necessity, and not something plagued by deadlines, and work to be done? I cannot. For me, it must have been about a decade, but it remains unclear.
Life used to be simple. There was no pressure to conform – could I even spell that word – no stress that would creep up on me, and…no effort.
I can’t quite put my finger on when life transitioned from something effortless to something so tasking that I’m often tempted to not to continue this seemingly meaningless day to day existence of pain, struggle, and failure. Once, long ago, closing my eyes was not an option. Oh no, I had to be awake because there was so much to do! I had to read a series of novels with more books than my collective age, had to stay in shape to play every sport I possibly could, pet as many animals as I could find, make up stories and write them down, read those stories to others and bashfully duck my head the praise.
Now; I want to close these lids because there is so much to do. Classes every day that make me want to sob at the state of education, work that drains my energy before I’ve even started, friends who couldn’t care less about my wellbeing that I’m too attached to because I can’t make new ones, parents who I’d rather not talk to and vice versa since we can’t understand each other anymore, and last but not least: the ever-present sense of complete and utter disillusionment with society.
See, suicide is apparently not an option. I can barely think of what more to write so I can continue to distract from whatever it is you’re choosing to avoid right now – let’s face it, why’d you want to be here anyway – so, how does anyone expect me to first think of a foolproof method of taking my own life, and then following it up with notes-
Wait, we have to have notes, right? I’m not making tapes – don’t know the first thing about them – but it’d be cruel to leave the world behind without even mentioning what it was that drove me to end things, once and for all. Maybe, I’d write a love letter for all the people I’ve loved. Forgiveness for the disappointment they put me through wouldn’t be given, and nor would I ask it. Who are they to warrant forgiveness from a dead woman? I wonder if poetry would work, but I’m no good at it. A story would be fitting to end mine. Ah, well. We’ll cross that bridge when we jump off of it, shall we?
Where were we…oh, yes? So, how does anyone expect me to first think of a foolproof method of taking my own life, and then following it up with notes, and conclusively, veritably following through with the plan? It’s too much work.
In all seriousness, I’d rather drift off to an endless state of unconsciousness. An eternal sleep would be better than a permanent, ugly, indignant death. Imagine, closing your eyes for the last time, or perhaps, not? Maybe someday, someone would wake us up. But until then, a dreamless, sleep; a gaze into the abyss of everything and nothing at all, unlimited darkness, soothing, caressing, and only meant for you. There would be no intruders, nothing and no one would trespass in my altered state of unconsciousness.
To lay your head down on a silky pillow, and forever be encased in that cocoon of unknowing would be utter bliss. As for the loneliness, I won’t be conscious to know I’m alone. As if swimming in a clear, cool ocean, breathing underwater…
Only me, and the darkness that relents a state of nirvana, abeyance.