I jotted this down straight after reading Julie Gregory's novel, Sickened. I'm feeling majorly depressed.
The hardest thing in life is living. To cope when all you're surrounded by is pain. Pure pain. Pain is reading about poachers killing tigers in a nature reserve. Pain is about losing the ones you love in the most horrendous ways. Pain is knowing about every single form of child abuse, every single act of animal cruelty, every single way a human being will happily destroy another.
To live is to hurt.
Life hurts too much.
Sometimes there will be brief flickers of happiness in my life, but they soon die. Most of the time, my mind is clogged with emotion so painful I want to let go: Hate. Anger. Fear. Regret. Guilt.
And the worst of those five is Hate. Hate hurts me so much, and yet I can't let go of it. I hate Julie Gregory's mother, who abused her in a way I'll never be able to imagine. I hate corrupt governments, who pocket money from selling off near-extinct animals to poachers, and don't spare one fucking thought for the people of their nation who are suffering. I hate the people I read about in a newspaper a while back, who burnt two young children and their father alive, just because their mother was setting up leprosy clinics. I hate terrorists who blow innocent people up and actually believe they're doing a good thing.
It is these soulless creatures who I hate as much as a human being can hate.
The pain is so bad. My mind is a seething mass of endless confusion. I feel that the only way out of this is death; I don't have to suffer like this in heaven, right?
But I'm too cowardly even to kill myself. So I'll just have to wait for the end to finally take me.
Till then, I'll just have to pull through.
Isn't it strange how 'live' spelled backwards is 'evil'?