I often wonder if the release of death would have been a more merciful end, a gentle surrender to the void, rather than this constant struggle to find meaning in a world that I'd rather not be in. The battles I've faced did not forge me into a stronger being; rather, they left me in a state of lingering melancholy. I emerged from the shadows of my struggles, not as a warrior reborn by fire, but as a broken soul, burdened by the weight of life, by the past I carry and unhealed wounds. I find myself yearning for an escape from the existence that feels more like a punishment than a gift.

It didn't make me stronger and it may not have killed me but sometimes — I wish it did.

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