I could inherit millions of dollars tomorrow. It would not make a difference.

Those who know me well often advise me that money will solve most of my problems, and create solutions for all of the others. What they do not understand is that I do not have any problems. Not the kind they think.

Whatever it is that makes a person strive, savor, want. Those things have died in me.

My sense of self-preservation has done everything thus far to scream in denial. I wear makeup heavy enough to keep the busiest clown performing daily without a need for frequent re-application. It weighs on me.

I have left this. These words. My opinions, my emotions. It is not very much for one to leave. I have not done well.

The sadness these words would have mustered in the past is beyond me. It has been too much, for too long. I recognize the things that I feel, I just don’t feel them.

My only wish is that my children will live better lives than the one I have lived. I believe very strongly that they will, I must.

I have earned, and squandered, more value than I care to tally. In every sense of the word. Every single day. Every single week, month, year. Is exactly the same. No matter how much I seek change, no matter how much I succeed in creating a change, no matter if I inherit one hundred million dollars, or go through the motions of creating an avenue to earn even a fraction of such wealth. It will remain the same. I’m very tired. It is so large, tired. It is in everything, and no amount of rest ever keeps it at bay. Two hours of sleep, twelve hours. It is just the same. I suffer alike regardless of how my behavior appears.

I cannot believe that Trent Reznor could have written a song that is this and not have ended his life by now. Perhaps he had a vague idea, or a well developed imagination, or friends now dead, who were kind enough to impart perspective. It may just have been boredom he meant. I cannot believe he meant this.

Tomorrow I’ll eat something. Work. Think. I’ll find things to distract me. I’ll read this again. Maybe I’ll feel silly for writing this. I’ll make excuses. I’m convincing.

You’re a liar.

Because even when you find a way to see this as something other than what it really is, you know it will not last. It’s not like it was before. The flavor runs out much faster now.

I am not happy. I am not sad. I am nothing at all. I just do not want me.

I have had times that have made me thankful for self-awareness.

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want better, because there is no better in my mind, and there is no greater barometer of value than that. I do not want to exist. Everything is so quiet now. I really will know nothing.

I hope you never understand this.