I sat down in the chair, my body limp, my mind without purpose. Is life worth living? The only thing that ever added color, that ever allowed me any positive emotions, was gone. My reason for being, for surviving, gone. Nothing left but an emptiness. A weight on my chest, crushing me under the neverending sorrow. I just wanted the pain to stop. At any cost. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to end it.
So I died minute by minute, inch by inch. My body lived on, but weak, listless, without drive. I had let go. My mind was gone. No reason to think. No reason to do. No reason to be. So I wasn't.
I was completely dead inside. No emotion, no mind. Only the never-dying spark, the hope that, one day, maybe that which I live for will return to me. Maybe that which makes life worth living will come back to me. Maybe life isn't completely hopeless after all.
That spark is a lie. And until proven true, it will always be just another lie your body tells you to keep you alive just a little bit longer.
If only I had the strength to end it. What lies beyond must be better than this.
But I don't have that strength. So I sit, and wait, letting my mind and heart wither away and rot inside me. A fate worse than death without end.