I feel it slipping away easier, faster; that now short lived ease of existing. I soon might slip away again. A downhill rot; a deathly sickening breathless moment. There is something confusingly terrifying about the draw toward misery, and why it comforts more than comfort itself. I seem to find myself being constantly pulled toward the nullifying experience. The cold, disheartening wave of sorrow is somehow always within grasp, and presents itself as appealing. But it is that meaningless, nullifying existence that, despite one’s best efforts at repressing the realization that it always was, and will be there, I keep trying.