I feel a bit unsure about coming out with this on a public board. I've posted some times here in seek for some conversation and/or communication, but quite possibly the way I type and formulate my thoughts isn't enough emotional to indicate that there really is something seriously wrong with my situation. It's always been like that, a remarkable ability to control myself and set a facade. So, I want to die. It's a feeling that I carry with me all the time, but it doesn't stem from sadness. Or grief. Or loss. It's just there. The feeling of being burned out, lacking a purpose or an ability to vent things somewhere. I can feign emotions, I could pull on a variety of guises to have friends, to what it's called "enjoy life", but I've enjoyed it as much as I could already, it's got old and even people don't give me the satisfaction, sense of accomplishment or goal I crave for. 24 years, and they were years filled with action and experiences, but what's left now is the prospect of experiencing something out of the common boundary. Am I tired? Yes. I’m tired. I did drugs. I’m alcoholic. My sex life started quite early. Some of bones broken in fights. Sports – too much at a too a young age Two unfinished higher educations. Army service. Journalism. Clubbing. Political movements and beliefs in a higher goal. If I can describe what feeling lingered with me since I can remember myself – it would be boredom. Nervous boredom. Relaxation is impossible, there’s always this restlessness. I walk fast, talk fast, make and loose “friends” fast. Change is imminent. Now I’m as bored – but tired. I need to relax, and the rest I need isn’t something a month of being lazy by the sea can be a substitute for. People always say - "there's always something to live for. Get up early in the morning, smell the wind, take a long walk at the beach, look at the sunset, go to the movies with friends", yadda yadda yadda. No. Simplistic carnegian mantras don't work. A person can live only when he's shrouded in the fog of an illusion of HAVING a life. But if there is no such delusion, there’s no life either. Just a sterile reality that can bring only sensory pleasure to the body. I don’t require love. Understanding. Care. Nothing of it. For the first, I never felt it, only lust or interest. Some people are interesting because they can share their experiences with you, thusly helping the boredom fade. But then the interest fades, and you go cold, you avoid the person and finally squeeze out of him the last drops of drama or misery he could provide you with. Yes, I dominated and manipulated people when I realized I can do that. Don’t know why – it just was a good source of entertainment. To present different masks, to play and win in the social games, to gain things I later discarded as trash. In the end, as I now understand, all the love, all the adoration, or respect I gained from people by being what they wished I would be or on the opposite, torturing them, it all just disappeared like sand running through hands. The satisfaction of all these acts is gone, the effect wasn’t lasting. And understanding? Each person is lonely. There is that kind of loneliness when you’re a social outcast and you have no friends due to one reason or another. That’s easy. That can be fixed by boosting self-confidence or whatever. However, even having a hundred friends, pals, lovers and acquaintances doesn’t guarantee you’re NOT lonely in some other way. But then, there is a loneliness of unique experience, unique for every person. When something in your life is such, or your mindset or anything of the sort, when you cannot share it with another person. You may talk about it with the person, you even might trick yourself in thinking that he does share the experience, but – he doesn’t. Living and interaction of people is kind of like to junkies tripping on LSD try to explain to each other how they’re tripping. What I’m trying to say is that people are not the answer when you’re not emotional. When instead of being rocked on this wave of comfort, words and feelings, you just sort everything out coolly, figure the lies, the hidden gains, motives, stupidity, shallowness or any other aspect that the person may have. I tried to live for an abstract idea. An idea many would find horrible. I still believe in it, but as far as transhuman things such as ideology or philosophy go, you still need the feeling that you’re actually achieving something. That you’re getting somewhere with it, not slowly dying and rotting with no hope. That your action change the situation to the positive, or at least influence it enough for you to reap the results. No. All I got was people wishing I would die. Later you think that maybe you should invest in creation. Through creation we live, right? Such a nice psychotherapeutical cliché. Sometime ago, I had a delusion that I’m a good and aspiring writer. I still have some delusions that I’m a good painter. And from a technical side of the question, it may be so. I used my warped and twisted states of mind to create things that some people even liked. But currently, I look at my art, at my writing, and ask myself: “What now?” What’s the goal of this? Even if I had popularity, I’d still be left unsatisfied. And this well of dirt I keep drawing out of myself, it’s not bottomless. One day it will stop, and I already stop inspiring myself. People create things for others usually. I create for myself because as I mentioned earlier, the goal of getting something from people in return for any creations – I have it no more. And personally, I got bored. My art depresses me because it’s pointless. Waste of time. To top it all, I’m sick. My tuberculosis might well be drug-resistant, the doctors said there’s a high chance of it before the final tests. My alcoholism… I tried to quit cold turkey, but got drunk thrice and forgot to take medication. Why I drink? Because I drink myself senseless and don’t think about things, finally stop analyzing, getting frustrated and angry. My family doesn’t know. Family is another problem. People react to things such as “I hate my family” or “Nobody loves me” by saying that it’s not true, that parents, however bad they may be, still care and you should try seeking refuge there. I don’t hate my family. And someone there loves me. What is unconditional here, is that I separated myself from the childish adoration of them I had when I was a kid and things were great, from the present situation where I had become an asshole and they – uninvolved bystanders. Can I quit? Yes, I can. They quit on me because I quit on them because they quit on me – circle of Ourboros. Sadness would be abundant, but it’s not as high a price. And now we’re closing in to the final aspect of this soon-to-be-suicide. I'm angry in addition to thoughts of death. To be more specific, I wish to hurt people. Boredom had a younger, but more active brother – Hate. Hate is very productive because it gives intellectual and “emotional” food to your mind. I love to hate. I thrive on these feelings of rage and contempt. Expressing it is actually orgasmic. Nothing new here – I dominated and hurt my women, my friends, everyone – to elicit the reactions, always so amusing. But that’s not enough recently. To put it better, when I think about suicide, I understand it’s necessity, but then something akin to jealousy kicks in along with the hate. I ask myself – well if I stop my own being, why should it end at that? Why does it have to end on such a passive and unfun note? I WANT to feel happiness and satisfaction just once, to finally get how it’s like. I don’t know. These are dark and morbid thoughts, yet so soothing, like a promise of immortality. This anger, ire and the realization of prospects that you can let yourself loose one time. Probably, I should and would kill myself peacefully. But it so sad to think about it that way.