i am filled with so much violent anger. i have zero outlets. nothing outward to destroy, no satisfying ways of self-destruction. i’ve thought about it many times but in the end, i’m far too neurotic for self harm. it’s not even for any “good” reason, simply the concept of having the scars of my own moments of weakness plain to see for the rest of my life is enough to dissuade me. i want to scream and cry and break things. i am constantly considering consequence. forcing violent urges down, keeping myself quiet, my rage calmed above the surface. letting things fester and decay is my natural state of being. sometimes i think about the incredible catharsis locked within the concept of killing myself, violently, viciously, tearing my flesh apart, if only i held the ability to come back fine again. killing myself holds no appeal when there’s just endless nothing beyond it. that won’t solve anything for me. it’s far too permanent for my brain to wrap itself around. but the appeal of committing suicide like the movies, some imagined scenario of booking an aphroditic suite at a glamorous old hotel, drawing a warm bath in a beautiful clawfoot tub, slipping in and observing the gorgeous room, soft pink walls, gilded accents, maybe victorian or art-deco in its style. and simply taking a razor blade wrist to elbow on each arm and letting the bathwater slowly pinken. maybe not quite a violent, vicious end, but a peaceful one. a beautiful one. something you’d see in some indie art film and think “that’s kind of cliche, but alright.”
