Last night I had completely convinced myself that I needed to go on meds in order to avoid all these hollow feelings and suicidal thoughts that have stalked me from age 16.
Then I stayed up, lying in bed, desperately searching for a reason to live. For some sort of inspiration to keep me going.
I kept coming back to the obvious: when you're dead, that's it - you stop experiencing things. And there are so many fantastic, wonderful things left to experience. I have let myself become deadened by boredom to the wonder of the world around me. The world is pretty fucking amazing.
There are beautiful scenes to see, fights to be won and lost, emotions to strangle me, foods to taste... So last night, I finally fucking decided to stop.
Stop caring so much about what people think (while embracing the fact that I am quiet and shy). Stop trying to be fucking perfect. I kinda already am the best that I can be; as long as I realise when I do something wrong and learn from it, what more can be asked of me? Stop thinking about checking out of life, as there is so much more to be tried.
