I can't say exactly why but the mere thought of dying brings sheer comfort to me. Maybe because I see it as an escape? A grandeur adventure? A form of salvation or at least something with the sort? I dunno. Maybe I was just this bored with my life—of how recurrent and predictable it's been for the past years.

I've never considered suicide or anything with the like though. And no, I'm not in pain. It was, I think, getting harder each day to feel things—to feel anything at all. Because most of the time, I feel nothing. Empty, as if there's nothing inside of me. Or maybe feeling too much just got me tired over the course of my life, that it started wearing me down, little by little. And now here I am, already spent that I've grown indifferent in life and living itself. Though I always find myself searching for a meaning for all of this. But is there really such a thing? Are all things interconnected with a hidden meaning behind them or was it all just bull crap the grown-ups used to tell us as a kid?

Because as I see it now, life is just a collection of meaningless scenarios and things. And whatever you do won't matter. Just like what Gandhi said— "Whatever you do in life will be insignificant, but it's very important that you do it." Which is agreeable—or at least the first part.

Anyway, today is my twenty-ninth birthday. And this day marks the happiest day of my life for I have received my long-awaited gift: a ticket to the other side. Yes. Yes. I was diagnosed with a terminal illness and finally, finally... I'm dying at last.