/lit/ - Literature

suicide

>>12435271
I'll never have this. As time goes on, I become more and more detached from reality; every facet of my personality withering away, leaving but a husk. Everything anyone would like to think they are familiar with of me is an act, posturing, a desperate charade in an attempt to have just the slightest taste of humanity. The only meaningfulness I experience is in living vicariously through the work and art of others.
It's not that anyone won't like me. It's that there is nothing there to love.

There is no point to existence or life. No literature, argument, theory or philosophy can defeat this fundamental, infallible fact. It's all pointless. The struggle, the fighting, the trying; it's all for naught