(no subject)
Dear Anthony,
It's been... literal years since I last wrote to you.
But....
You're not real. Not anymore. You're not here to read these messages (which I took down ages ago because I couldn't bear to look at them, and the notebook that is filled with my first letters to you.... who knows what happened to that...) so what does it matter if I haven't written to you? You don't care. You're not here to care...
Some days I get really lonely and it's terrible. It's near unbearable, and I don't know if I can keep surviving as I do now.
What do I have to complain about though? Sometimes, I feel like the fact that I don't have it as worse off as others makes me weaker for not being able to have a reason to be here.
Which is stupid! I know that! My depression is valid, and my emotions are as well, but I'm just.... UGH.
What's the point anyway? What's the point in... any of this...
Sometimes I wish you were real, and here, and with me.
No, that's a lie. I wish that all the time.
All the time.
I don't like being lonely. But... I can't do this. Not with someone else.
I'm never lucky enough to be the one to go first. And even if I were, I don't think I could ever be okay with leaving anyone behind... but then, what does that matter?
I wish I still believed in Heaven.
Or even Hell.
I wish I believed in anything... I guess, I still do... because I do believe in people. Dear glob, do I believe in people... But there's nothing for us, is there? After this? I... don't believe that anymore. And I don't want to.
I don't want to exist after this. I don't to exist at all. I don't even want to be decompose and reconfigured into something new. I don't want to be reborn and exist in a new form of eternity.
I just want... to end.
I know, you never liked me talking about any of this, but I'm not going to do anything. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day I will, but not yet.
No, I definitely will. But not yet.
I miss you. I love you. I'll try to write more.