Anybody else tired of being alive?

I know I am.

I could continue, but it would read far more as whiny than wonderous. Let’s give it a shot anyway.

              I was, am, tired of being alive. Was it the mental illness that brought me here? Somewhat I’m sure. There’s a certain fatigue destined to set in when one seems unable to avoid the same conflicts day in and day out. Medications are lovely, and I’m sure therapy works for some—though it never seemed to do much good for me. Options exist to aid in what seems to be a terminal, mental ennui, but it remains just that: ennui. The weight of the past, real or imagined, is always there, adding an unneeded weight to my every day. The problem is the lack of an actual light. Sunshine itself, bright and pure and nourishing, doesn’t permeate the heavy clouds in any sort of meaningful way. Imagine a flat field. You’re looking across it and there, on the horizon, you see that nice silhouette of black trees drawing a steady ventral rhythm across it. Beep. Beep. Beep. You can see this, but above it, it’s just gray. Light exists sure—after all that’s how you see everything—but it isn’t direct or bright. It’s just this diffused haze that shows everything, but defines nothing. Maybe a shadow shows up every now and again, but for the most part it’s nothing but bland, washed out color and a steady rainfall. None of this is necessarily bleak, mind you, it’s just so fucking boring.

              And I’m tired of it.

              Is it worth thinking about times when the world looked different? No. You can think about times you’ve been warm and dry all you want, but when you’re standing in the rain, it doesn’t amount to shit now does it?