I did not ask to be born. Neither did anyone, I suppose, so I will be forgiven if I say I hate this life. I resent everything about it. I hate the smell, I hate the noise, I hate the people and the complications of relationships -- from the most trivial to the most binding. I hate the things we don't have words for. And the words that we have -- every nuance of language, every sharp descent, every steep incline, every particle of power words command -- all of it inadequate, all of it I hate to the very core of my being. I hate that ultimately, there is nothing for us but darkness.
Every day I hate this life even more. Things rot inside and outside of my body. Through these eyes there is nothing beautiful, nothing good. My soul quakes at the agony, at the blinding radiance of this hatred. I hate how difficult, how utterly complicated, how physically painful it is to leave when leaving all I want to do. When dead is all I want to be.
