Self-Inflicted

I don't want to live.

I really don't. There's something wrong with me as a whole that will never grant me peace, happiness, or well-being. I enslave others in the nuances of my sorrows, feel guilty, and turn away to leave them writhing.. And then they, too, despise me. (I don't deny them the right to that). I just don't get it. I cannot be happy, content, peaceful, loving, friendly, or whole, so why live?

Yet I fear death: dying and the afterlife. I cannot fathom- for I have only ever seen things through my own eyes- me not existing in the realm of "here." Yet when I do, I do evil, though I want to do good.. And that is generally why I, when dead, will not deserve- be granted, to put it more properly- a place of rest. I don't want to go to Hell, nor do I wish to propogate Hell here... Yet I do.

I should take again to sleeping...