Strength, toughness, hardness, coldness, perfection. You haven't proved a thing. Beating me down hasn't proved a thing. But I think I'm starting to prove something. I think I'm starting to properly focus on what I need to do to die, to reach that better place. I feel the weakness of my life. I feel the end of human connection. I feel the need to sleep and never wake up. I share thoughts, knowing I cannot be weakened beyond this, accepting I was never strong or perfect, only a random person caught between too many things, knocked around from one punch to the next. Cold shot to cold shot, punch to punch, glass shattering from every blow. I am not a mosaic, I am not a vase or an object to reconstruct into something. I have nothing to prove with death, nor do I take on board people who do but disregard my own will to die, as if their will to die is real and the way I work through my will to die is puny, is recoverable, can be changed and improved and turned around into some form of life. The word shattered is exactly that, shattered. It also is no reflection of another human beings state of mental health, in the last few months I've asked for help and support but I've never asked to be fixed. Only the narcissistic sociopaths would assume that, no matter how constructive and informative they attempt to present themselves as. Nobody asked for your tough talking home truths, you do not speak for people to the extent you seem to have built yourself up into thinking you do so please, for the sake of yourself, drop it or let go, suicide is not a competition or some form of strength contest.
