Should I kill myself or have a cup of tea?
I decide on the latter and I'm not sure why. Probably because I can. Life is a never-ending scroll of be-goods, be-happies, be-in-controls, be-okays, be-strongs and be-appreciatives. So what's another day?
Just another day closer to death.
Still, life seems incredibly long, don't you think? So long, it's hard to see the end and nearly impossible to touch even with a knife in my hand that could easily skewer my heart, make it squirm and still like a dying nightingale sealing its death with a pathetic squeal of almost-song.
Life is pain and people in pain are a pain in the ass. Perhaps occasionally or perhaps frequently, they think "Why not just kill myself? Life is hell, anyway. No hell after life could be worse than this."
But they're wrong. The worst is never the worst because things can always get worse and maybe that's why I decided to stick with the chamomile tea. That or I feel tea-sipping is reason to live.
My perpetually cold hands warm the heated cup and I breathe in the steam. Maybe I think it'll fill me the never-ending pit of my angsty teenage soul. I breathe and the steam sinks to the bottom wherever that is and I laugh because I think that is all I am. A never-ending abyss of steam. Not air, not fire, not water, not earth. Just steam.
With chamomile tea for a soul.