/lit/ - Literature

It feels as though a divine power is encouraging me to complete my destiny, so strange are the coincidences of my health. Everything enjoyable to me is vanishing and, yes, all that keeps me going is "that", my destiny, my raison d'etre. Every pleasure serves to scourge me; whether it is in its transience, as gentle silence fades before the hostile ring of a rapidly growing tinnitus, or in its meaninglessness. Even consciousness itself is unfortunate, for every moment of peace is quickly interrupted by rapidly worsening obsession over "that", the injustices in this world. Death has lost it's luster too, I feel as though I cannot die as long as I have not tried at least to enact that, my raison d'etre, my destiny.
I want to give up. I can't. I want to give up. I know it's not possible. I want to fall to my knees and beg for help, but in doing so I take from the little good in this world and shirk the very thing that I-- and so many like myself-- was born for. The raison d'etre of a dead man.