Once upon a time, I thought I would love to die rather than live this miserable life. But then I was clinging to bits and pieces of life. I would not want to leave my diary behind and I wasn’t ready to burn it or throw it away either. I would still hope of having a big enough house one day that would have a big, big library. I would dream of growing old too even though I hate to picture myself old. I would love the sun, I would love the rain and I would still love the people around me from time to time if not always.
This made wishing to die a lot more complicated. I would say to myself that I want to die but my love for all these things and my hope for having an amazing life someday and my will to still look at the bright things and my ability to still love people makes me wonder: those people who commit suicide, what kind of darkness they must go through to give up all the pretty things in their life! How depressing it must be for them that they don’t see the sun rising everyday! How miserable they must be to not see people around them at all! And these people who go ahead and kill themselves are not brave nor coward for me. I think, they are no one because they just stop being even before their deaths and that is scary.