After an accident, people always talk about how they are “lucky to be alive.” I’ve always felt the opposite. If I were lucky I would have been stuck down by some Godly force years ago, not missed death by mere inches. So I guess I’m praying for a new kind of miracle. A cancerous, twisted metal, kind of miracle.

As much as it seems like I want to die, I’m not completely suicidal. I’ve just embraced the reality of death much too soon. And I’d rather be a free soul than trapped in some rib cage. There’s a difference between wanting to die and living apathetically.

I’m impatiently awaiting my expiration date. As it inches closer and closer I begin to lose my grip on my surroundings. I’m starting to worry that one day I’ll wake up and life will be indistinguishable from the dreams in which I fly. Fearing I may vault from the rooftops, only to come hurling downward. To become nothing more than another statistic.

I wake up and face the harsh reality that I am still living in a world without purpose and it hurts. It ******* hurts. I’m so tired of merely existing. If I can’t live to the fullest, give me death.