Seven in the morning on this fine Easter Sunday and I'm here, reading all of my posts back in 2011. And just how much I regret not having the guts to off myself.
You know, I actually thought my life was getting better- more stable and certainly not meddling with the thoughts of the after-life. And just how much I wish I still was.
It's been two years and I'm still stuck in a puddle of emptiness. Just a different time and an altered state of mind. Two years and everything remains the same inside. Deep inside, it's still there. I don't think it ever goes away. But it's different now- I've lost the gutsy romanticism in dying.
Two years and it wasn't worth it. Meeting you, losing you, feeling you, understanding you, reading you, experimenting you. It meant nothing and it continues to mean nothing.
I should have done it when I had the guts.
One of the biggest regrets of my life is probably not fucking ripping myself when I had the chance.
Because this is really not fucking worth it.
