Sometimes he thinks about the next sixty years and he just feels empty. He has no idea how he is going to get through them, since he barely got through the first twenty years. It all seems useless. To struggle and fight and be miserable for I don’t know how many years, just to die. He doesn’t believe in God. ‘I wished society would be different. I wished society would just let people die who don’t want to live,’ he whispers. Then he feels guilty. People die every day, people who do want to live. Cancer, war, murder, old age, accidents, AIDS, all kinds of other awful diseases. He should want to live, but he just doesn’t. He sighs. Only sixty years to go, if he doesn’t get hit by a car, doesn’t get cancer, doesn’t get murdered. ‘But let’s assume that won’t happen,’ he says, ‘let’s assume the worst.’
(Source: creationoftheday)
