depression and futility

Perhaps I was right when I was walking home with that half a gram in my hand. "Big deal" I said, "another soul lost in the name of the almighty's creation". I sacrifice my life for His entertainment. Among so many lives, what is the importance of just one, let it be lost. Then I decided that I was quitting and declared it in front of Him. “Do to me whatever you want, I don't care anymore, let me die today. Actually, I want to die today. I will shoot it up all together and whatever happens, happens." That was a plan that consisted motivation, excuse and indulgence for my thievery. The ultimate shame could only be solved by death.  
 
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Unfortunately, or fortunately, or neither, I survived. I don't know why and I don't feel worthy of this survival. So many times, I questioned His judgment until I decided He was punishing me. And it made perfect sense that life is a torture. All I had to do to confirm this was look around. People who breathe in pain and breathe out compassion for nothing. Images of horror and suffering. Our species trapped in an emotional prison that their ancestors built for them and left as heritage. Malice, hatred, envy, jealousy in printed and non-printed tree trunks. Poverty of heart, poverty of money. Abundance of pain and ugly fates that laugh inside the heads and say "this is what you deserve". Dead ends that appear on major avenues and highways. Blood on the asphalt and curses in the cemeteries. The utter futility wearing the crown of the newborn effort. The absolute chaos timeless, asynchronous and created by a sick nature. And nature laughing, saying "that's how life is, be grateful".  
 
Whom shall I thank for my temporary existence here who fights me eternally? To whom shall I sacrifice the lamb of innocence of my blood dripping on the floor? Where should I pray for the redemption of the soul that I do not even know who she is? In what darkness shall I hide until this whole ridiculous joke is over?  
 
We are so small and insignificant. I baptized my identity with shame and called it Pain. I became the simulation of Amalthia and the screams of the underworld. I became a self-hating hell. I used to tell myself that soon it will all end, with the fear that I will burn in the infinity of time. I was saying "be patient until you can't feel anything for a few hours". The meaning of life was hidden in these hours. Silence, absolute quietness, almost peace. The shame used to go away, along with the distress. Everything was fading and there were no hours. No men, no gods, no body. My body was still with one arm stretched out to the side hanging, as if it wanted to reach to the other side, but death wouldn't touch me, as if he despised me too. My gaze was erratic, with one eye facing this world and the other the beyond. There, where I wanted to stay forever but it was not possible without paying rent. And I ran and ran every sunrise to beg and steal and promise, so that the beyond wouldn't throw me out. Eviction meant I had to stay in this world and that was a nightmare, with monsters from the scariest circuses and ghosts from rotten crypt occult stories.  
 
In the beyond, the land of immunity and apathy I did not feel. The feelings were cartoons in an Athenian newspaper hanging on the stands of the square. The sun was just a light that magnified the ugliness of my prematurely aged face but I didn't care because a veil hid the public view from me. The people were mere caricatures, dancing here and there without joy. My hands were the entrance to this country, through tiny vessels that if I wasn't careful, would collapse and throw me back to reality. Little by little, they all collapsed, one by one. And the beyond was kicking me out and then calling me back like a Siren who served Hades.  
 
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The journey back to apathy was getting harder and harder. The hours I had to spend in reality were getting longer and longer. The only solution I could see was death but I was a coward, I only wanted to leave through the beyond so I wouldn't feel it. I hated myself even more for this, she was punishing me as if I had done something so bad that there is no forgiveness for me.  
 
The Acheron River had no water for me. It had white powder and little rocks that you had to break with calling cards and ids. Charon went back and forth, carrying children who never passed puberty. No matter how many obols I promised him, he wouldn't allow me to pass. I was putting golden coins on my eyes and in my mouth, whatever I had and I didn't have, I played dead. But he, ruthless, was throwing me into the river mouth like toxic waste. Until I got bored, broke, and tired of trying.  
 
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Somehow, I don't remember how, another version inside me began to speak. She was saying something unintelligible things about change and redemption. She had no dreams or goals, her only goal was to keep me in reality, because she said I can change it. I was shutting her mouth with snorts and the bitterness of heroin in her throat. Then, every time I would wake up, she used to say she wanted to write poems. So, I got a notebook to see what she has to say. She spoke of our pain but in weird words, in rhyme and with an ambiguity in their beauty. She spoke of a vow which I never remember taking. She even talked about my destructive love affair with apathy.  
 
Today, my stomach hurts. And it doesn't make sense because it's been years since I left the banks of the river, I'm on a hill and from here I can see many versions of myself. I struggled to climb here but never looked back with nostalgia. The colors, the air, everything is different from this high. I named this hill Self-awareness. I saw the other side of life. I saw God telling me that everything is my choice. I marveled at the innate euphoria of a sunset view and the indescribable sense of oneness. And now I stand on the edge of the cliff staring and wondering, what I am doing here?  
 
This question clearly has no answer which gives me relief. Maybe relief is no longer a part of my life. I left her behind, along with Acheron. Maybe the point is just a bubble but I don't have any more needles to burst it. This overwhelming weariness often comes and tells me something I can't hear. Maybe it's my soul that's tired of me being blind, fighting my being, or carrying what I think I am.  
 
This overwhelming fatigue makes me feel that death is mocking me again. It was so exhausted to reach to this point and now I feel like I have to give it all up and fall into the void. All my labor was wasted, because the reality I promised myself was not real. It was utopia.