024
Reflecting on the whole hair incident, I think I really did kill myself on that day. Shaving my hair—which was basically getting rid of the only thing I found good about myself back then—was, in a way, a death. It was on the second of December, 2024.
But if that's the date of my death, then, what am I? I can't say I was reborn, not yet. It has been seven months since that day, but only a month ago my personality, identity, hobbies, and everything started to change—or perhaps, more accurately, get snuffed out.
Perhaps this is the closest I'll get to an ego death. I'm still tied down by family, which I don't mind. But I'm also still tied down by some remaining ideals and fears, the ones I desperately need—or want, have, must, or whatever verb—to break.
My body is dead, and I killed it. It's dated. But my mind is still hanging on by the little jutting bricks it can find—which are only the ruins of a person slowly being demolished—for a false sense of hope.
But what I want, what I need, what I must have, is a death so complete, a cleanse so deep and a fire so impossibly cruel that it erases me entirely. And I'm close.
It's funny. This last month, my head has been filled with screeching and screaming. With an endless flow of whispers and taunts. It had been tormenting me.
But now, right at this moment? I think it's the cry of a dying animal. One last useless effort to save itself from it's demise. One last lash directed at nothing. One last clutch at a straw that does not exist anymore.
I'm close to my death. I can feel it.
And it's thrilling.