Today can be summed as: Standing precariously upon an old wooden chair, the hangman’s noose around my neck. The sun shines and a gentle breeze kisses gently my face, though my mind is too focused to appreciate it. Any minute now an unseen foot is going to kick away the chair, and as I swing within the last throws of life I’ll think, “What a lovely day!”
Why? Because the vulture that is life does not notice my downward spiral and inward screams of pain, instead carries on picking away at what is left of my battered and bruised carcass. One day, as the last remnants of my sanity evaporates to nothing, I’ll look back and ask myself, “was it worth it?”
Copyright: authorchrisbrown
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Life probably was, suicide was probably not:)
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Thank you for your comments. The latter is definitely not an option, and merely exists within the context of the writing as a measurable gauge. ☺
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Good to hear;)
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