emo therapy

i hate to sound melodramatic but...

seriously, why am i here? why do i even bother sticking around?

granted, i know life is pointless. all thoughts. all emotions. everything is fleeting. happiness is momentary. boredom, too. so, what's the point?

i can live for myself, but where does that get me? dead.
i can live for other people. i can live for something greater than any individual person--a humanitarian cause, but what does it matter? it doesn't. history repeats itself. things get fixed. broken again. fixed and broken again. just like people. it's all cyclical. it has to be. there has to be a dichotomy. boredom/happiness. sadness/ecstasy. death/life. etc. etc. etc.

i'm just so sick of it. it gets you nowhere, when you really think about it. nothing i do, in my relatively short lifetime, here on earth, is going to matter in any great or significant way. i'm just one more body taking up space, effecting things for the time being.

so what's the point? why don't i just kill myself. why don't i just not kill myself.

why do i do anything at all when i know it's only a temporary fix--short-term, long-term, it's all the same in the end. nothing lasts forever. nothing you do is going to change anything for better or worse. your existence merely serves to satisfy the status-quo. it doesn't have a point. that's just how it is. i mean, that's the ultimate effect (not even a function) your life bears on the world.

suppose i did kill myself. what would happen? i mean, barring any repercussions i could face in the afterlife.

i'll tell you.

first of all, obviously, my parents and friends would probably be pretty upset about it. my mom would be devastated, as would my sister. that's a guarantee. but they'd get over it. just as quickly as if i'd, let's say, done something beneficial or great for them--like, bought them a house or took them on a trip to europe. sure, they'd think about from time to time, but it would become incrementally less significant to them as time went on. europe would be reduced to a vague memory--an impression of how it actually was. my death, my empty room, would evolve into something else--some new feeling. one day, my sister might walk past my room, wishing to tell me something and then realize that i'm not there and i won't be there ever again. she'd probably be pretty heartbroken about it, but pretty soon that room would become filled with other things, it might become an office or a guest room and, thus, something else. and only the memory of the time she walked past my room, looking for me, with no success, would serve as a reminder of my death. and, eventually, that would start to fade out, dwindle in impact.

i don't know, though. i guess what i'm saying is that i'm so fucking bored with everything. living for the moment. i mean, it's a kind of trick--living that way. you have to pretend you don't realize it. live for the simple pleasures--sex, entertainment, money--all the stuff that means shit in the big big scheme of things. i don't even know why i bother sometimes.