"I don't know why I'm here." It's a phrase that I've uttered more times than I can remember. For the past seven years, I have secretly wrestled with my depression--too ashamed of myself to reach out for help. The world seemingly revolves around me as I battle the shadows in the very recesses of my own mind, all screaming in pain. I grew up in a family that preached love for everything, especially for life itself. How can I explain to them that I never loved life? That my only wish is to submit to the eternal blackness of death. I've realized that the only time I am ever truly happy is in my dreams, lost in the wild imagination of a scared and lonely child--my escape. Every day is a reiteration of the day before, forever trapping me in an infinite loop of despair. I lie here, plagued by the same musings that have become as much a part of me as the skin on my bones. I head to work, and find myself unable to focus on anything but my own inadequacies. Lost in contemplation, I can't shake the feeling that this might be my last day. I've been fighting my own mind for so long. I don't want to fight anymore. I have failed at the most basic of human instincts--the will to live. Society tells me that suicide is wrong, yet I keep telling myself that it's the only solution. They tell me that I need a support group, or a therapist. That I need to talk to someone about my feelings, rather than trusting my own rationale. In the end, I am the master of my fate. Only I can choose what to do with my life. I choose to die.