Synaptic Plasticity

If something I say or do doesn’t meet your expectation that’s your problem. I don’t have to be subjected to rude threats because I’m not a mind reader or overwhelmed with joy over everything you do either.

How wicked and strange human beings are. When a well of emptiness opens up in your soul slowing consuming everything you are no one cares. No one even notices as you suffer silently through the pain. Don’t try to reach out for help or solace, you’ll be dismissed or branded as broken and worthless. Watch as the inner chasm grows beyond any fathomable measure. Feel the last vestige of your soul shreaking for help as the only feelings left are pure white hot rage. Not the kind where you scream and yell, the silent bottled up rage that burns every last shred of you to ash. It’s so hot you know there won’t even be cinders left.

But step out on a ledge, pull out a gun and point it at your head, swallow all those pills you’ve been meticulously saving, just try to put an end to the nightmare and watch as even people you’ve never known jump to try “help” you. Like some disfunctional white blood cell army that’s sole purpose is to prevent anyone from dying of their own accord. Don’t make me laugh!

This existence is pointless, we all know it, and most of us are terrified. Terrified of being alone, different, not good enough, unloved, even of dying. I’m terrified I won’t be able to decide when I’m done before this shitshow becomes an even worse nightmare.