From chaos and all its corollary elements, how is it that every breath in the expanse of existence has lead this Universe towards the creation of the exact me?

I woke up today thinking it was Wednesday. This was odd, as yesterday was Monday, and I didn’t recall doing any time traveling. Where did my Tuesday go? I checked my phone and it confirmed my internal clock must be broken, because of course it was Tuesday. It was Tuesday, April 24th, 2018, the day directly following Monday, April 23rd, 2018. I was moving through time and space at the same speed as the rest of the people on this planet.

But that can’t be right.

My phone is telling me it is not only Tuesday, April 24th, 2018, but it is also 9:43PM. That’s PM, as in post-meridiem, as in 2 hours, 17 minutes of Wednesday, April 25th, 2018. It’s so close to the next day, it might as well be the next day. But then that day ought to just be the next day after that, and so on and so on and so on. Why am I bothering to move at all? Why am I letting my world be lived out in the forward progression of these clocks and calendars? I can just forfeit my time, right? I can just wake up and decide that today is not today. Or maybe that yesterday never happened, or that tomorrow has come and gone. I can do that, any and all of that, and find myself at the end.

I can stop my time.

So what am I waiting for? I’m blowing up my career because I’m too embarrassed to explain away the fresh cuts covering my arm, and I’m too drugged up to concentrate and get anything done in a timely manner. I’m actively attacking my body in new ways, ranging from punching myself until I throw up to breaking my own wrist and arm with a wooden baseball bat. I’m sick, very fucking sick, but I refuse to get help. I want to fix myself, but I can’t. I have people offering help, but I won’t accept any. I am running out of time…but wait, I can’t be running out of time, right? I mean I stopped my time. So I’m not running out of the stuff. But I guess, by putting my time on pause, I’m making it impossible to get any better. So when my time does start moving, it’ll be a split second of light at the end of my life, and in that moment I’ll feel an eternities worth of regret, and then I’ll be nothing.

And that’s all you ever were.

You were always nothing. You were not flowery words and similes of love. You were never a broken hearted teen. You were never a good son, or sibling, or friend. Hell, you never even knew what love really was. You were never good. You never mattered. You never could have amounted to anything. You never were meant to live. You never had the courage to just fucking kill yourself.

You’re a fucking coward.