Recently I felt like the best way to go would be in bed. What else could be more fitting for the perpetual slumber? I’d wear my PJs and tuck myself in. It’d be nice and warm. I’d take some tranquillisers and tie a cord around my neck. After securing the other end of the cord to the headboard, I’d start to feel drowsy. As I fall alseep the cord would tighten around my neck, and I’d slowly but surely be strangled to death.

During the darkest hours, I imagine more horrific scenarios. I imagine being beaten, raped and assaulted, then left for death. Some part of me thinks that’s what I deserve. I don’t know why I have these morbid thoughts. What’s even more alarming is, how can such an optimistic exterior withhold such a dark interior? Am I just a fraud? Have I lived my entire life in play pretend?

Or do I want to be pittied? I’d like to leave a mark after I’m gone. Something to prove I once mattered, even to my family. I figured, I might’ve failed while alive, but maybe I’d be successful in death. But truth is, they wouldn’t even know I’m gone. I’d just rot in my bed. How long would it take until my corpse is discovered, I wonder. 

By that time it wouldn’t matter. Nothing matters in death.