I always imagined that my cause of death would be suicide.  I couldn’t have been 100% sure when, or how, or what the final trigger might be but I (thought I) knew, with absolute certainty, that that is what would happen.  It wasn’t something I hoped for, it wasn’t something I feared, it was something I accepted.  I felt this way from 14 to 27.

I don’t feel that way any more.  I couldn’t tell you how I’m going to die any more than anyone else can.  Sadly, I can’t even tell you with certainty that I wasn’t right for so many years.  What I can say is that I hope I was wrong.  That when I am forced (by my over-ticking brain) to think about death at all, that is no longer my go-to place.  I think beyond fifty.  My deep-seated belief has been shaken to its core.

By hope.




10 thoughts on “Hope

  1. I used to have a chance to die by gun. Things have improved drastically since then.

    I still regret not going through with it. I don’t know about you, but the end of experience is more attractive to me than anything this world can offer. I don’t want to want. I don’t want to need. I don’t want to want to be happy.

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