It Doesn't Make Me Miss You Any Less
I think I understand suicide.
The black creeping sinews of depression are suffocating.
Your body becomes a vessel, the depression becomes you
and You are in a smaller and smaller space,
locked away for safety.
Sometimes, the key is forgotten.
Sometimes, the depression recedes and you can come out again- either into safety
or with the power and light to fight it.
Sometimes, the only escape is death.
Through death, the depression goes. It is the final triumphant act of defiance against this parasite. Nothing is lost - you feel no love when infected; you feel nothing when dead. Not a censored, muted blackness of nothing where you find the nearest wall and stumble through the dark, groping for the switch.
(The wall is endless.)
But just nothing.
Not. A. Thing.
You become everything.