19 November

He had never had a suicidal thought before in his life.  I mean, although he could see why other people might want to end it all, he himself had never imagined a situation in which he would no longer want to go on living.  But as he stood there at his job, half-asleep, mostly irritated, minor annoyance after minor annoyance built up and compounded by a sort of sense of futility, a helplessness, an inability to deal with the way life in general seemed to be going, with the future stretching out before him, an endless tunnel, poorly lit, with nothing ahead but uncertainty, aloneness, constant trudging on and on, and toward what?  His world had narrowed down and narrowed down until he could no longer focus on his immediate surroundings.  People tried to talk to him but he could no longer hear them.  He tried to shake this heaviness off, but it just settled down on him even more until it became an effort to remain upright.  He still couldn’t imagine how he would actually end his life; painkillers perhaps?  Certainly nothing painful.  So instead he thought about what he would write in that most final of letters.  “I’m sorry.  It’s not you, it’s me.”  Was he breaking up with life?  Would he even leave a note?  How does one even begin to explain or describe this…nothing…

Disclaimer: there is no cause for alarm, please go about your business as usual.


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