If I could die, that would be the sweetest release. It would complete me in such a way. My life would be over; it would be forfeit. And, if there is a God, perhaps even they would look at me with pity and sweep me into their arms so I can finally rest in everlasting peace. 

I wish peace were eternal. I wish I could get out of bed. I wish I could enjoy life and not have to worry about things I did in the past. There's nothing good here. And I've always been a problem, a catastrophe waiting to bloom until it eventually fizzles out into nothing. I'm like a flame trying to stay alive in the worst conditions. I'm fighting to free myself -- to crawl my way to a reality that once tempted me to do better -- to go further. 

But now I live in acrimony with a distaste for my own person that is unrivaled. I talk, and talk, and talk in an effort to assuage my guilt and minimize my problems, but I am a pest that needs to be swatted and then my fire, which burns with such subtlety, would finally be free. 

Perhaps I don't deserve a quick death. Perhaps I even deserve to suffer beyond what I have already experienced. Although it is quite hard to imagine, I'm sure that suffering would make me more bitter than I already am. I don't deserve kindness, nor peace, nor friends. I am nothing except for graffiti on the wall -- haphazardly painted with little to no care. That's me, and hopefully I can die soon.