It's four days into 2026. Nothing felt different. The pain and distressing thoughts I had last year is still carried with me. They were gone for two days though, on the second and third. But today, it seems like they keep on coming back, and my body is giving no effort at stopping it. My vision for the future is cut off. My future. I can imagine nothing but inevitable death in a short time. Death of my own doing. I'm scared of myself. Of the instincts within it that can easily conclude on self-harm as nothing but solution.

Of love, I am still rich and prosperous. Or so I try to convince myself. Having isolated myself from communicating with anyone I know, has led me to believe that I am alone in the world. That nobody would really care if I actually kill myself. No tears, but perhaps, celebrations. This only supported my thoughts further, and when I tried to convince myself of the opposite, of all the friends that would voluntarily pour tears for me. But to those persuasions, I would respond in doubt. That’s how far I have gone at hating myself.

It’s really exhausting to have these thoughts. To look at a rope and have the thought of dangling from the ceiling. To look at a knife and have the thought of sticking it right into my chest. All of these thoughts didn’t only come from fantasy and desire drive. It comes from stress. Seeing them is like seeing drugs. The temptations. Those are stress-enders right upon my eyes. Tools that would end my pain and suffering. The pain that it will give of suffocation, bleeding, or anything of kind, would be an investment. 5 minutes of excruciating pain for an eternity of peace.

If I actually die in a short time, intentional or not. There would be no need to cry. For both of my contradictive sides, that’s what they wanted. For the side of me who hates myself and wants myself dead, they are now satisfied. For the side of me who are oppressed and are overloaded with stress, they are now at peace. No side of me wants to live anymore. Although, a tiny slice of myself are still dreaming, wishing for a life, in peace, where my heart, and my ability to touch, to see, to say, would be used in its efficiency to love her. Love her until the old crippling days where my eyes go blind, and my skin goes pale. That she would to, and that I would be loving her then.