A person who has committed suicide has had at least something to end. He must know joy to know misery. I have known nothing. Why live? Why die? One is an equal choice to the other. ... It takes tolerance not to give in to death. –Vivienne Loomis, journal, April 11, 1973
Well. I know. It's just. Death is inevitable isn't it ? I don't see the reason not to die. It's a see-saw, balancing the will to live and the will to die.
Honestly, I don't know. Haven't been sleeping well lately, that's for sure. Tons of things perpetually on my mind. I really don't know how to deal with that. Well, when my birthday had passed and I started to be happy actually, cause, for once, my parents paid attention to me. It sickens and yet saddens me to see my parents, only noticing my existence when there's a reminder for them somehow. What about all the other times ? Can we do something else instead of leaving each to their own device ? Sure, we are lazy, but we do want to spend time, like trips to walk together ? I don't know anymore. Really.
Right now, I think my teachers are pretty darn cool. I don't know how. But the younger they are, the more fun they get. They tend to be more understanding and fun. I don't know. It seems weird as well, but well, yeah.
My exams just passed. I think I'd score well for A maths ? But I'm not getting my hopes up for the others. Anyway, these few days, I keep on looking at the ring and somehow, just feel like putting it on my finger. I don't know. I'm going crazy.
I made a promise. To my teacher. To tell her whenever I feel suicidal. Well, I've come to terms that I have, in fact been suicidal. In some form. Kinda I guess. I don't know. I've always been like that, just lately, I'm losing control but I'll be secretly depressed again. I don't know why. You know, sometimes, I just have that thought to push myself off a staircase. Have a concussion and never wake up again. Or get into a car crash and die. I'd never want to jump down. It's too gory. Especially, for my little sister. I don't want her to be left with a sad impression. I'd rather take killing myself, into a form of accident. You can blame neither party, now can you ? Every single night I want to tell you what I feel, yet. Sigh.
Just because you don't see the scars doesn't mean that they don't exist. I've found other ways, other places, to let me release myself. The blade is the brush, my skin the canvas, and blood like paint. It's a warped world I seem to live in, yet, it makes sense to me. How many times have I promised people not to cut, and yet I still do ? Even if they're not tired, I'm tired of me as well. I'm sorry. I'm different. I'm not like you. I am weird and I'll go away if you ask me to.
I'm sorry I can't keep promises.
Sorry.
