Barbiturates mixed with red wine.
On the long 13-hour Amtrak train journey from Kansas to LA.
The plan is to loll my way into sweet slumber, to feel my eyelids droop and feel the flame of my soul be snuffed out, soft whiffs of grey smoke trailing up in the air and disappearing.
The perfect suicide.
Of course, it has to be.
Anything short of perfect will leave me with chronic liver failure or in a dependent, comatose state.
I’ve been pondering thoughts surrounding my existence and they have almost inevitably led to the meaninglessness of it all. I’ve always felt down about the state we are all thrown and suspended in, our feet unable to touch the ground no matter how much we kicked. How perplexing.
I used to be adept at closing the cabinet door on these thoughts but nowadays I have lost the strength to do so. These thoughts now wrap their blackened tendrils around parts of me, my eyes, my lungs, my mind. How insidious this spread has been.
It’s almost 3 years now.
Here I am, contemplating and tossing around ideas on how I can cease my own sorry existence because I have utterly failed at ascribing a purpose to my life, a task so simple that even the lowest of scums seemed to have figured out.
I’m in the middle of a perfect storm of circumstances, the right conditions for happiness. A cozy wooden house, a Christmas tree stays lighted through the nights and days, 5 furry cats, a house of people brimming with love, lots of baked goodies.
The truth is I’m so sad. I don’t know how I got sad and don’t know how to stop being sad either. It’s been a long time and I’m worn out.
Living is so tiring.
I don’t know.