The Book of the Dead.

I can't seem to turn my face from you; my shadows.

One moment I am happy, even content with my existence, and the next I don't feel anything about anything.

One moment I am working through this thing, and the next I am trying to find an exit to alleviate my pain.

One moment I am standing awake, fighting for a reasonable peace, and the next I am lying asleep fighting for a chance to end this thing.

If I have no reason to be,
no goals, no hopes or dreams, if there isn't anything I want, if I haven't a will to speak of, well then I am quite simply a meat sack of air. If life cannot be anything more than suffering and longing, tell me what the point is?
Should I simply live because I am?
Or If I am lacking without a cure to such sickness, shouldn't I be put out of such misery?
Living in absurdity, in such meaninglessness seems to me no life at all. Nor should anyone be forced to live.
To the people who say life is a gift, it is you who I will never understand.