Original Story / Short Stories

It’s all predictable reality.

We talk about suicide. We talk and we talk and we talk. Because it has become such a huge part of our lives, our existence. It has become a huge part of ourselves.
We have been there, and back again. We have delved into the very depths of our depression, have destroyed ourselves over and over in our heads.
Our skin is tattered and scarred together. Our bodies merely limbs. It is our brains, that work. Our brains that keep us alive, and tell us to die.
I have divulged into places of my mind where i should never be. And i loved it, and it hurt, and it brought me to my knees. Brought me to bleed.
I have found corners to hide in. So dark. So empty. So filled with the very epitome of my meaningless existence. So, tempting.
Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Suicide. Tempting.
Whenever you stand at an edge, no matter how sane you are, you have the urge to jump. It may be so subtle, merely feeling like a gentle breeze in the beginnings of fall. Or it may be overpowering, overwhelming, terrifying and satisfying. You may crave it more than the lives long forgotten. And you wish to fall. Fall fall fall fall.
But do you consider the impact of the ground below?
Or do you simply imagine the feeling of falling, then nothing. No pain.
But there is. There always is. That’s the funny thing about life, every aspect, every being, no matter how mundane, evokes pain.

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