Recently my mind has been ruminating on the prospect of suicide, it's almost as if I get flashes of the event, over and over throughout the days passing. It's not that I have a hard life, I still live at home, I'm not in poverty or in dire straights by any means. It's perhaps because of this that my guilt weighs down in the form of this depression, of my worthlessness and incompetence as a human being. That as a social creature I for the most part cannot stand other people, even friends, family, it feels like I endure them. I look at society and all that I feel is disgust, and though this may be a reflection of my own self esteem that does not dampen the effect that as a thinking creature I don't have the ability to think properly. My thoughts are scattered, my direction void, ephemeral at all times and constantly changing bi-weekly. Okay, so I possess some kind of intelligence, but it doesn't matter, it only turns against me because I have no confidence and my rearing years were spent in ignorance and isolation of my own reality and that of the world around me. I wouldn't say I'm crazy, but in the past months since my return from Alaska this festering lump of shit we call civilization has been draining me. I tried school again, it failed, I can't think. I can't deal with all the self absorbed hipsters milling about with their plans and motives, without wanting to hurt them, or just make my world black with a bullet. It's not as if I feel rage or anything, because rarely I feel emotion at all unless muted or scattered in the jumble of static bouncing around inside my head. I've called the suicide hotline numerous times, I want to end myself because I don't want to end another in one of those dead end moments of faux-finality that seem to come far too often. I don't see any other option other than that, becuase the world isn't helping itself and I'm in no position to help anybody. I lie, I am, but I don't have the willpower to press on. No, I'd much rather prefer to drift into sleep with fading dreams of notes to those left behind. All the time it seems recently, these thoughts pervade even the simplest action and yet I cannot will myself to expel the invasion. In fact in some form I invite it, slipping, slipping all too drearily into one of those comatose enabling states where I take advantage of the hospitality blessed to me with no regard to physical progression. I hate the sound the television makes when the news anchors skate around the real issues of society, where we avoid equality and progressive action in pursuit of distraction of the lowest common denominator. It makes me yearn for powers tools in a fantasy of torture, and even then doubt escalates anxiety, I'm just a lanky white boy, what threat do I pose other than my demented meanderings? That just makes me a waste of space, a waste of air. I'd serve better as nourishment for the birds and the worms than a living breathing factory of disruption and consumption as I am, American. I'm nothing, and even now I know the futility of it all, every action all at once, death and life. If I choose to die I choose to deny whatever reward weathering the storm may bring, and I know the rewards would be great in such subtle ways... And that in life I will eventually fade and be back in this state again waiting for inspiration to strike and distract me from imminent eruption. This immolating indecisiveness is consuming the outer edges of my possibilities, so i retreat into what false security I've always known, and that is fading in real reality, as I'm bold enough to see now. There is no place I see for those such as I, flailing effortlessly for attention and narcissistic satisfaction. I've been contemplating Concerta, Ritallin, Adderal, something to help me concentrate. But I fear the possibility of this freight train pileup dissembling and converging on a single rushing path to regurgitation of warped idealism, and sacrificing what sanity I've worked so hard to hold onto. I remember this mask of sanity, and I think of how I idolized all of the killers in my youth, and thought so hard with what limited brainpower I could muster on what they must have felt in those moments of power. I remember my mother telling me how she always thought I was going to be a mass murderer when I grew up, and all the countless suicide attempts she planted that probably filled me with so much wretched self loathing that I can't even remember now how I felt. Only that feigned confusion as if I was really so stupid. I remember shaky cigarettes coiling around nervous finger lengths, blurring into the black cold of the world outside the window, and how I would never know the ideas that spawned this craving. Whatever the case may be, sadistic desires have been forged at some point in my history, and they will not leave me, passive and shy and forgotten, without an indignant nightmare. I have no more confidence left in myself but I'm willing to set myself to the grindstone to make things right, only who would want to wear the burden. I don't know, and that is why this coincidental contradiction of blossoming consensus is receding into whatever cage I learned to mold somewhere, back there in the quivering bedsheets. The feelings fade because it's all in my mind. This mind is the enemy of the true purpose, and that which I know to be eternal in god, the sanctity of interconnection, so if within the frame of this consciousness I cannot create good; than I am better off as fertilizer. That is my rationalization, good night. Don't fret, just musing. "Letting it out" so to speak.