The quest for greatest


Ps: For the love of God, do not read this and think I am suicidal. I am just trying to show what obsession can lead to.


I have been wondering what it'd be like to shoot myself in my head lately. Just blow my brains out and die. To hear that clinking sound one last time, as the bullets enters the chamber before it goes "BOOM". Would it hurt? Would it feel like as if I am piercing my skull? My generation is weak. We will be remembered in history for self harm and wanting to die. I stand with Hemingway. If you wanted to kill your self, you can. It's possible with out failing. 
Writing with ink and paper will no longer suffice. I write on my skin pouring the ink from my veins. Then I drain all the words that I failed to scribble. Every writer has a God, suicide is mine. And every God demands a sacrifice. Ergo I offer my flesh. I am spilling blood in hopes that some day I cut deeper. How perfect are these lines? How straight and aligned? How deep? Until I see the white? I draw and write. I paint and erase with shades of Crimson red. I do it for the art. For the prose and poetry. For the rhythm and symphony. I am the clown that won't take life seriously. I am leaving permanent marks on myself, a sort of evidence for my autobiography. Proof of my pain and misery. I will no longer seek hope. I no longer have a dream. I have found peace in this melancholy. Until I muster up the courage to free myself; get it over done with it, I will find ways of self destruction in the name of worship and hymn. In the name of a God that demands I pay the price of absolution with violence.

I have been searching for ways to end my life for as long as I can remember. The thought has always been there; at the back of my mind just sitting. I consider it as a contingency plan. I consider it as a last resort solution. 

Every writer has a God suicide is mine. All

the greats have done it. Those who I look up to all committed suicide at the end. Why should I hold back in my quest for greatness? Those who I idolized have blown their brains to pieces. Be it Hemingway or Cobain. Perhaps I should follow Plath's path, a soul sister that couldn't cope with life. Just go and shove my head in the oven after popping some pills. I never liked to cook anyways. Maybe they'd consider it an accident. Perhaps drown myself like Woolfe. My body aches the feel of the deep ocean on my skin. My lungs beg for it. Another baptism. All the greats have done it. They couldn't wait to be free of the thing that was once a source of their genius, their own mind was their curse. 

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