From time to time, I have found that the steady drumbeat of life, the daily struggle that is never alleviated, the relentless burden that only grows with time, feels like a millstone to which my face has been lashed. With time, it has metaphorically shaved my face down into a bloody smear, featureless and raw, bereft of humanity, leaving only a skull, polished white and grimacing, flecked with streaks of blood.
I flit from shallow pleasure to shallow pleasure to alleviate the feeling of existential dread knowing my life is going to be less successful, less fulfilling, less bountiful than that of my parents. Staring regression in the face, when I’ve tried so hard to get ahead, to do all the right things, to make them proud or just do right by myself, and still fail, is so disheartening as to make me wonder if suicide doesn’t have something going for it. An emphatic exclamation mark on a steadily sinking spiraling sojourn into the depths of failure and class degeneration.