This is not a cry for help

I think I’ve overstayed my time here. I feel like I was supposed to be one of those iridescent children, the ones that everyone mourns because they were only ever just children. Those beautiful luminescent children that never got to grow up and are preserved in an eternal state of youth in our memories. I think I was supposed to be one of them but something went wrong and now I am a hollowed out shell that forgot to explode.

I am still young by most standards, except perhaps the standard of those teenagers that are convinced that one’s youth (and life, really) ends with teenage-hood. I am constantly told that I have my whole life ahead of me, and this should motivate and encourage me but all I feel is exhaustion. I am so tired of being alive.

This is not a cry for help. I am by no means suicidal. If nothing else, the fear of it hurting and me failing would stop me from trying. But also the fear of death. Well, not so much death as much as what happens after.

I don’t want to die. Death means that you were here, and then you weren’t. It’s like an absence, like the wreckage of a ship or the ruins of a building. It is marked and felt and there are traces left. At least for a while.

What I long for is to never have been. For the building to never have been built at all, for the ship to never have set sail.

It wasn’t always like this. I once loved being alive. There was so much beauty in the world and it was so easy to see. I didn’t even have to look for it, I just had to have my eyes open (and not even that sometimes) and it was all so spectacular.

The signs that I would burn out quick were there. I was too full of life and I felt everything too intensely. Every friendship made was treasured too deeply and every one lost mourned too greatly. It was always all or nothing with me. I burned too bright and too fast. If I’d know that I’d be burned out by now, I would have tried to feel with less intensity. But how could I have know?

There is still beauty in the world, there is so much beauty in the world. But there is also so much pain and hurt and misery and ugliness that there is not enough beauty to make up for it all. I saw so much less of it when I was a child, there was almost only beauty and wonder. But as I age, I see more and more of it. And I see how hard it is to turn any of it into beauty and how easy it is for beauty to be destroyed.

I am also tired. I am tired of the intensity of anything and everything, good or bad. I am tired of the beauty of love or nature or hope, the desperation to keep it alive, the pain of its death. I am tired of the effort of climbing up just to be yanked down again and then rinse and repeat. They say that this is what life is, but I am exhausted. All I want is level ground. Maybe if all I had to do was walk and not climb, maybe then I would be able to keep going. I would give up the highs if it meant that the lows would be gone too. I am too tired, too empty for anything more than just walking.

My heart feels like a fire that is almost burnt out. Barely lit. A flame on the verge of flickering out. Sometimes I want to claw into my chest and rip it out. I have tried to keep it going but all it does is threaten to go out. So go out already, just die already then.

I feel as though I were at a buffet with any and every meal that you could dream up, but I never feel full. No, I am starving. I’m gorging myself on the food and yet I’m starving. No matter how much I eat, no matter how much I try to fill myself, I am empty and there there’s no one to blame but myself. Maybe not even myself.

It hurts, being so empty. A sort of dull ache that never completely stops. You can get used to it and be able to ignore it most times, but it’s always there. And it will be felt.

I’m terrified of dying, but I’m so tired of being alive.

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