To all my suicidal friends who make me face these questions daily, to all the mormons who continunally confuse my existence, to all the drug companies who make me believe I'm insane, to all the people who have looked at me and laughed, to my friends who think they know best, to the people who feel nothing, and mostly to me for living this long...
PROOF: Hell, Drugs, or Nothing
Hello,
If you're reading this, I can only assume you're alive. Congratulations. You must have gone through great pain and heartache to make it this far. I regret to inform you, but the hard part is not over. The hard part will only be over when you exit. Some people choose to exit sooner than others, but we all eventually do.
At this point you're probably asking yourself, "Why am I here?" The answer is simple, yet complex. Some won't find the answer until they exit, but you, since you're reading this, probably already know the answer. Yes, it is as it appears.
Now that you know, there are many choices. Are you a dreamer, a believer, a realist, an existor, a hider, a deserter? It's true, you didn't choose to live, but now that you are, you have options. You may fill in the blank with whatever you'd like. The Blank. If you'd like an emergency exit there are choices too; a gun, a knife, a car, a razor, a string, a pill, a bottle. Your exit may be whatever you like. If you don't choose an exit, one will be assigned to you at random. So there are your two truths: you were born without consent, and you will die. Now what's in between?
This is the exciting part: ANYTHING! Your life was this space before my letters corrupted it. This space is now my life. This is my blank. My options are infinite yet limited. At the end of this page, I must turn it. If I choose not to turn it, I must exit. My pages are heavy. At the end of every page I ask myself, "Is this the last? The End?" I've been paper cut before, and will be again, but my pen has yet to run out of ink. I have wasted much ink on certain words, and will again, but in the end, if my book is long, I will be satisfied. I shall endure the pain of turning each page simply because. This is my answer to why I'm here, because.
Time is my friend, but in the end, my life is one long day. To the ant on the ground, my life is long. To the tree in my yard, my life is short.
Now what are these things; these indescribable pains that don't appear physical? Someone told me they are proof of life. Chemical reactions using my muscle, my air, and my timing to survive. When time betrays me I assume these feelings will cease. In the mean time, if these chemical reactions prevent me from living how some others, some where, some time have decided is the right way to live; they have developed a drug for that. This drug shall pacify me until my time to exit. So far, they haven't caught onto me.
I have discovered why I'm here, and it's to discover just that: the only reason for living is to discover there is no reason. A paradox. Options, there are options. I am a changing person. One day one option, the next another. Some people don't write their stories. They leave it up to a higher power. They think their stories are already written. I cannot say whether they're right or wrong. For that would be in constant contradiction with my current page. If when our timing's gone, our chemical reactions cease, then all we are is now. If death is infinite and living beings are numbered, then eventually we'll all be gone. We are not worried about the Sun burning out because it will live longer than us. So if when we die we are gone, if there is no greater power, my story will eventually be lost, be forgotten, be worthless.
Why spend the time to write it down? If there is no greater power, then we are all in complete control of our decisions. A terrifying freedom. Anything is possible within our physical limitations. So the question is what is right and wrong and who may judge this? If we have total freedom in our lives, then there is no right or wrong. The only person who may judge me is myself. Some of us will be held back by our chemical reactions and some of us freed. When everyone has exited, none of our actions will have mattered. I do not know right and wrong; I can no longer feel hot and cold.
New question: "How long do you want to endure this pain of existence?" Some people will exit as soon as they realize their life is nothing more than a stack of perishable sheets with a finite number.
I've considered my options, and I've consented to fight. I choose to write. I will fill my pages with as much as possible before I exit. I will not censor my writing; I will not allow my story to be judged. People will say, "Her story was long and boring," or, "Her story was long and exciting," or, "Her story was long and sinful." But when all these people are dead their judgments will not matter. I am here because, I can change this at any time, until then, I write my story right or wrong.
Now you know. Even that will eventually be lost.
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