The Obscure

I fucking hate myself. There are highs, yes, but there are also lows; and the lows, my friends, the lows are so very, very low.
So here I am, thinking of doing that one awful thing. Here I am, thinking of all the easy ways I could put an end to this horrific experience that is the Life of a Sick Man. Here I am, throwing my words at all of you people like razor-sharp fucking knives, wishing that my thoughts could cut into the minds of the masses and clear the vision of all who are blinded by the lies and the muck and filth that so infest our society. Oh, if only you could see. You would be sitting right beside me, knife in hand, contemplating the same things I contemplate night after night.
It would be so easy. It is so close, but it is so far away. You can suck down the juices of my mind by reading the shit I smear onto this page, you can absorb all the convoluted, insane things I have to say, and you can think to yourself that you understand them. Who knows, maybe you do. God knows I don't. I write this shit and I don't have any fucking clue as to why. I write all this horrible bullshit and every fucking time I feel like crying because I don't know why I keep coming back here, I don't know why I keep on trying to expose the rotten part of my soul to you people.
I hope you enjoy reading it, but I've just now realized that writing it is killing me. Everything is killing me. But it is killing me slowly, and I think soon I may have to find a quicker way.