Dear Diary, I’m dead.

Dear Diary,
I sit here counting minutes, counting seconds, counting moments, and I know my count wouldn’t reach to triple digits. I do not possess the power to stop the slipping sand, the changing shadows, and the intricacies of time.
I have swallowed 16 sleeping pills diary, in full attendance and it is a conscious decision. A conscious decision I might begin to regret some seconds later, but I should not, because regret is just that- regret, and it can never reverse such big impromptu decisions.
I’ve understood life diary (isn’t it funny how I call you, an inanimate writing tool ‘diary’, as if you were a real person). Nearly all my life I have heard people- old and young, stupid and wise, alive and alive- describing life, trying to decipher this code that a certain God (which one?!!) has designed. I’ve had reassurances, stupid remarks, and unbearable taunts being directed towards Him, the Almighty. Wise men say do something worthwhile with your life. Funny ones say laugh and keep others happy. Workaholics say work; teachers say teach; artists say discover; doctors say save; and wretched ones like me say loot. Loot whatever you find, for you really wouldn’t find much, and the things you do find, are really yours to keep.
Anyway, back to how I’ve understood life, and why I’ve decided to end mine, at 52 years of age.
I cannot do everything. I am a mere spectacle, a pawn that he very cleverly designed, to play whatever shit role I’m supposed to play and then go away. Shakespeare said that the world is a stage, and all men must play their parts, and he was darn right in saying so; but I refuse. My dignity has refused to play the part of a lonely old man; I do not want a second childhood to my story.
Do you know, diary, that more than flowers, I like the initial stage of blooming buds? They give a weird sense of hope and joy to me, because I can’t see them as approaching their end, but rather striking a beginning and it makes me very mad when those buds grow up into those big wards of petals that make me sneeze and attract those disastrous insects.
I cannot do everything, diary. As I feel the effect of 16 pumps of poison slowly oozing and mixing into my blood, and see my handwriting getting messier, I really do feel that I cannot do everything, and so I cannot do anything.
I refuse to be part of a big film, the biggest film actually, that some director has chosen for me. My ego is much bigger than those who think they are ‘destined’ for their characters. I want to leave this world with my integrity intact, with my hopes high and I want people to say, “Mr. Jones chose to take his life away”. Chose to.
I will be the element that fails His Big Master Plan, that dissolves this Grand Play into nothingness, and it makes me happy.
I finally can do something. Something big enough to change everything and I die a solemn

(I think it is safe to say that Mr. Jones dies before completing his entry and also to say that this purely a work of fiction. I am very much happy with God, and my part in His master plan. Mr. Jones, a lonely man, dies an even lonelier and sadder death. Don’t consider yourself a mere spectacle; you are the hero to your film.)

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