My black sunI no longer fear dying because I no longer think this life is worth having. I no longer fear dying because I no longer think this life is good. I cannot find joy in it but I do not feel low or angry. I feel exhausted, the little I had gone, wasted. It has dwindled and I am now a shell.
Sometimes I laugh when I watch my children's playing and I say I wouldn't miss that. But I wish they had never been born. What a thing to do to them. I hold their faces in my hands and I think what a cruel thing that they should even exist; what a cruel thing that they should grow to hope, to burn, to live, and lose it all, sooner or later, in their own dark sun of pain.
I want to walk away. I want to run away down a long, lonely path into the silent, bereft wilderness of dwindling years of being hated but not being present to feel it. I am just walking up and down on the spot. I hate everything that I do and everything I could do. I wasted everything I have because I do not know how not to.
I do not know anything. I have packed encyclopaedias into my stupid fat head and I do not know anything. I am no longer sad about it. I do not know how to be sad. I am spinning in a void, my own black sun, shedding no light, cold and dead before I have been born.