It's not your fault

Eyes

In case you missed it, I had hope once. Believe it or not the only thing keeping me alive was the search for my reason, my purpose in this dark world. Well, it's not the world's fault that it couldn't simply give me a reason to stay; it's the fact that I gave up looking for those reasons. But don't worry I had a few I could slightly remember.

Little as a flower blooming from the winter that passed in time. That was the hope I had, until the Fall.

The realization of each pain that existed in this harmful world. Words that were lies, continuous non-ending loop of never ending pain. —got carried away didn't I? Sorry.

In my eyes this realization is what everyone wanted from me. The reality that everyone says I'm going to face in my future. I believed in it so much I took that bullshit to heart. People need to understand words actually hurt, actions, REACTIONS from the hurting needs to be seen. Not just read from this damn passage. That's really what's so wrong with me you know?

I wanted the world to be right just this once. The hope of this harmful world in my hands , could be right. Follow the damn World Peace shit. I believed that was my purpose. Sadly no, it just wasn't. The whole problem couldn't have been fixed anyway. With me that is. It's because if I had a purpose wouldn't god or something give me a sign. It could just be as a little action as a 'knock on wood' when you doubt something's gonna happen. Yet it happens. That's exactly what I was thinking the night I took my life.

It was never an easy decision to whether or not take my life. Practically, I've been giving up on trying to go through the pain no one could understand or even help. Searching for a reason clearly didn't help or improve my mental health. It just drove me , more & more insane. I needed help, but all the help that was given was useless. I had the same ending for each thing they tried to say to me, try to convince me life is worth living. Yet here I am, writing a god damn letter , putting all my hope to reach to others that probably don't give a damn about my death. This is the art form of my purpose. Now the art form of my death. How I really wanted to take my life, and live it just to finish my story.

The words my mind and lips could never scream. The heart's pain that I could never handle. The fear of being alone that these words will never reach a soul I've left behind. The fear that maybe, if I took my life and they managed to get me back. The fear of the loved ones I care most about to leave would never understand why I left, to think it was their fault. Or waking up to them feeling the warmth that I know I don't deserve; the choice I didn't want. The feeling of guilt that'll overwhelm my body, the pain I ran away from.

It's not your fault