I am thinking of Ending Things

The title of this post is inspired by the book of the same name by Ian Reid.

One among the many things that I related to in this book was that once this thought enters your mind; there is no escaping from it. I am thinking of ending things. 6 words that can break someone’s heart; make someone panic; send them into a frenzy of fear; or just plain destroy them. I am thinking of ending things. I love how these 6 words mean so many different things in so many different contexts.

There are so many times I have thought of ending things. Things being the key word here. Was/Is this thing a job, a relationship, a habit, a chain of obsession, or just plain all-inclusive life? Funny. So damn funny. The first time I thought of ending things was when I was 13 and it’s funnier because it was my ­all-inclusive life I wanted to end.

Eleven years later, I am still thinking of ending things. Is it life I want to end this time? No. Guess I am growing up backwards. It’s this ceaseless chatter inside my mind that incapacitates me. That confuses me. That forces me to contradict myself. That pushes me further and further towards the edge. This gut-wrenching pain I can’t point to a tangible thread. This silence that’s there for no apparent reason. These tears whose home I don’t know. This anger. This frustration. This irresistible urge. Urge. For what?

To drown. To smother. To kill. To quit.

I am thinking of ending things. My job; my friendships; my familial bonds. My reading; my writing; my drawing. My conversations; my stories. My awfully-messed up illicit love affair. My work. My passion. My dreams. My pain. My grief. My disappointment. My thoughts. My fears. My worries. My apprehensions. My efforts. My growth. My stubborn, stubborn hope. My health. My wealth. My home. My existence. No. My tangible existence.

I am thinking of ending things.

I am thinking of ending things.

I am thinking of ending things.

I just might.

I just might not.

Funny.

So. Damn. Funny.

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