Be born. Grow up. Go to school. Get a job. Get married. Have children. Raise family. Retire. Die. Life is so arbitrary sometimes that it's sickening.

When your existence is comprised of the strive to attain the societal ideologies of what constitutes the ideal life, what's the point anymore when you're living just to die? In the grand scheme of things, people, as a species and as individuals, are insignificant creatures. People like to think they matter, but when put into perspective they're nothing short of ants inhabiting their own self-contained anthill.

I guess that what I'm trying to get at is that I just don't much see the point in pursuing this life. What we fear most is not death, but being forgotten. When life is reduced to a mere ineffectual mode, fragmented dreams of the Elysian give way to acceptance of the inevitable oblivion that befalls all at endpoint. What we hope to leave behind is a legacy, when all that is ever left behind are broken dreams of what never was. Much with everything, time invariably erases existence.

And I guess that's why I've always been able to justify suicide as a viable means of escaping this fate. The way I see it, it's just a method of breaking the cycle. I don't even intend for this to come off as the rambles of a depressed person, I'm just approaching this from a philosophical existentialist perspective. If life amounts to the pursuit of an illusion, why bother at all? Why, then, is it bad to kill yourself if you feel you have no motive behind living? Some would say that suicide is a selfish act, but aren't those very same people who say that selfish in wanting the suffered to subsist in what only ever amounts to a living purgatory? I dunno, I just don't feel like life and death is as black and white as everyone likes to think it is. There is no good or bad, only circumstance.

Know that if I ever succeed in killing myself, it will be for these reasons. And for that reason, I accept that I am a corrosive individual.