More like hell… actually no, I’m too mediocre for that, my soul would probably just puff away into inconsequentialness and be forgotten instantly by my non-existant loved ones that had, even through their lack of a presence in this world, abandoned me long ago when they realized just how worthless I truly am: not even mediocre enough to be with the the mediocre but still neither good or bad in any amount great enough to distinguish me from the masses who, unlike me, actually have something special and worth while in their lives.

I am the perfect mediocrity, the very soul of non-achievement, glanced yet not pitied nor admired, just forgotten in the very next instant due to its lacking in any negative or positive feature. My entire life hasn’t been remarkable, nor has been horrid enough to deserve pity: it has had for consequence but a non-sensation, a lack of feeling worse than the most horrible of heart-wrenching panic or sorrow. It is the epitome of nothingness, of things to be discarded, for no one has had enough heart nor to love me nor to even see me.

If I die, it will be to blissful a release from this tortured existence that has been plaguing me since my most uneventful childhood, where I was neither bullied nor admired, neither befriended nor rejected, where I neither excelled nor failed. I am but a mere shadow of what could have been called sane, and yet I have had throughout my life no experience that would have warranted, in the eyes of our society that feeling of utter dread. If I were to seek out help, none would deem me important enough a case. If I were to seek out love, none would see in me the spark that even somewhat gives the shadow of a hope for greatness.

I long for death, and it, in its agreement with this merciless life allotted to me by whatever horrid entity that plagues this dreadful cosmos, refuses to me the bliss of its embrace.