I wonder how many of those important things that make life worth living I'll lose before I decide it's enough?

The question is ridiculous, of course. For one, no matter what I think or decide about things, I don't get to decide what I lose. For another, well, I can't think of any I have left.

There are important things in my life still. They just aren't of the variety that makes opening my eyes in the morning something to look forward to rather than dread.

My grandma just died, and given how close they were, I doubt my grandpa is far behind. In the midst of that grief, I've wondered whether it would be better to wait and not add to it, or let my family grieve all at once.

That idea too is ridiculous, because if I cared about my family's grief I would not be thinking of ending my life. Or at least, if I cared about their grief more than I cared about my own.

I just spent a minute or so gazing down at the xacto knife in front of me. It's sitting out and not put away because I've been thinking about using it.

A few months ago I carved the word "futile" into my arm. You can still see "TILE," because the scars themselves mock me.

Since that time I have not been without cause or means to cut again, nor even without desire. Yet my skin remains unblemished.

Part of me longs to bleed again, and perhaps I shall. The problem is that it won't help, not now, not anymore, not enough.

Once upon a time, it did help. Once upon a time, it was all I needed to fight the darkness, though like all things that fight the darkness, it did not come without a price.

But, again like all things that fight the darkness, it no longer makes enough difference to justify its use. Which does not mean that I will not use it, only that using it will bring relief only barely past the time I put the knife back down.

The blade was born of darkness, yes, but also fire and passion and the desire to live and breathe and feel, and most of all, to fight. There is no passion to be found in my life, no fire, no desire.

The only thing that keeps me here, I think, is that lack of desire. If I do not desire to live, well, I do not desire to die either, or at least, not enough to do anything about it.

I have lost so much, but I do not grieve. I do not feel enough for that.

Yet even in the midst of emptiness, I continue to breathe. And continue to breathe I will, until, at last one day, I don't.