on a cold dark street

"I don't know if I want to live, or if I have to...or if it's just a habit."
-The Walking Dead

The other day, I was standing at work and I thought to myself that I was getting closer and closer to not caring if I died.  Probably closest I've been in years, like since I was a kid and prayed for death in my sleep every night.

I've casually thought about offing myself before but nothing substantial ever came of it because of small factors like devastating my family, leaving them with my debts and the concept of everlasting hell kept me from pursuing expiration.

But lately I've been thinking more and more that I'm probably going to hell anyway so that's a moot fear.  The family devastation and debt is another thing, though.  If I were to die by other means than my own, I wouldn't have to feel bad because I wasn't the one who finalized the physical aspect of my demise.  Maybe I'd get hit by a bus or inherit my father's colon cancer and experience The Great Release guilt-free.

I can't really see my life getting better.  I know this is a gaping fallacy most suicidal people fall into, thinking life will never get better, that things will never ease up.  It's hard to see past your own pain.  You can't visualize the grand landscape of life when the world weighs down on your mind's eye.  But pain is fleeting, right?  Things do get better.  It won't always be this bad.  But who really knows that?  In my experience, things have only gotten worse the farther I've come.  High school was terrible and college was a colossal disaster, one I'm still paying for physically, emotionally and monetarily.   And because of that monetary consequence, I can't get my feet off the ground and move away to a place of better opportunity for jobs and friendship.  I'm stuck.

But what does any of it matter?  I don't have any passion for drawing or animating or writing.  Food, my only true comfort, isn't even all that great anymore.  And I don't feel connected to anyone.  I think about the people I used to care about, the ones who left me, and I can only feel a burning resentment toward them for ruining our relationships.

So, if I die then whatever.

But that night,  I actually had a dream where I was back in Savannah.  It was at night and I was just leaving an illuminated auditorium.  The light from the building spilled onto the cobblestone road, transitioning from white to yellow to gray.  The air was cold and blue and I walked down a series of brick steps and turned left.  The space in front of me was obscured by the dark night sky and expansive bushes.  I took a few steps and then hesitated.  I felt a sweeping sense of unease and decided to turn around and go the other way.

I thought to myself, "Who knows what's in those bushes.  This isn't a good part of town.  I don't want to get killed tonight."  Then I walked up another set of brick stairs and turned left into a water fountain.  Suddenly, I was barefoot and splashing in the icy cold water, looking down and watching the clear liquid froth at my feet.

Then, I remembered what I had felt in the waking world, about not caring if I was dead.  But I kept walking forward, still not wanting to risk the chance of encountering a gun or a blade in my fleshy stomach.

I woke up and had to wonder what it all meant.  Was it my subconscious telling me that I really didn't want to die or was it just a case of focusing on something so much that you carry it over into your dreams?  You know, like if you do something repetitive over an extended period of time like wrapping loose change or spending the day with a person and suddenly that loose change or that person appears in your dreams.

Was it just a case of life infiltrating dreams or am I still unsure about my existence?  I don't have much hope that it's a sign of anything significant.  Why should I?  Who's out there looking after me?  Who has something grand planned for my existence?  What do I have to live for?  I don't want to fall for another false hope.  I don't want to once again think things will get better only to be slapped down one more time.  No, I think I've finally cracked, fallen too far to see any way out.

The worst part, and the part that makes me feel the most selfish, is the fact that there are probably some people who do care about my fate but I don't care about their opinions.  It's the ones I want to care for me, the ones I want so desperately to love me, the ones I want to take an interest in my life and writing and thoughts and feelings, who remain indifferent.

Yeah, I'm definitely thinking it was a "loose change" kind of dream.