amor.dor
No silêncio da noite profunda...
- Dec 24, 2025
- 309
I love the people I at least consider friends.
I've always been a saboteur — not because I hold any hatred toward people, or act from ego — but quite the opposite. I know my worldview is different, and corrosive to others. I love my loved ones, but I know I am like a radioactive person: I will corrode their alien sanity.
Yet I cannot ignore what I know. I cannot betray myself for the sake of something else, even for those I care about. I don't see life as something good, but as a curse — almost a kind of forced labor.
But deep down, I crave connection. I live torn inside myself: one part wants to be like everyone else; the other tells me: Go to hell alone, and go with a clear conscience, knowing you dragged no one into this torment.
Sometimes I feel I shouldn't even be on this site — I should just throw myself in front of a train. But then I freeze, thinking: What if a child sees my mutilated body on the tracks and is traumatized for life? So I start thinking of a thousand ways to minimize the impact.
God, I hate my mind — seeing every possibility at once. It's as if my own mind sabotages me just to keep me alive.
It's an enormous dilemma.
Should I write what I think? For whom?
Maybe I should relegate it to some corner of the internet, to be published only after I'm gone. It might help someone. Or not. But I don't want to ruin anyone's life. If, for example, a father of a family comes to see suicide as something good, he condemns his whole family. If a single mother kills herself, she only traumatizes her now-orphaned child.
If I had died in that car accident when I was 12, I would have been just a tragedy.
But it's impossible to exist without causing some harm to another — no matter how good your intentions.
As a saying from my country goes: Hell is full of good intentions.
I've always been a saboteur — not because I hold any hatred toward people, or act from ego — but quite the opposite. I know my worldview is different, and corrosive to others. I love my loved ones, but I know I am like a radioactive person: I will corrode their alien sanity.
Yet I cannot ignore what I know. I cannot betray myself for the sake of something else, even for those I care about. I don't see life as something good, but as a curse — almost a kind of forced labor.
But deep down, I crave connection. I live torn inside myself: one part wants to be like everyone else; the other tells me: Go to hell alone, and go with a clear conscience, knowing you dragged no one into this torment.
Sometimes I feel I shouldn't even be on this site — I should just throw myself in front of a train. But then I freeze, thinking: What if a child sees my mutilated body on the tracks and is traumatized for life? So I start thinking of a thousand ways to minimize the impact.
God, I hate my mind — seeing every possibility at once. It's as if my own mind sabotages me just to keep me alive.
It's an enormous dilemma.
Should I write what I think? For whom?
Maybe I should relegate it to some corner of the internet, to be published only after I'm gone. It might help someone. Or not. But I don't want to ruin anyone's life. If, for example, a father of a family comes to see suicide as something good, he condemns his whole family. If a single mother kills herself, she only traumatizes her now-orphaned child.
If I had died in that car accident when I was 12, I would have been just a tragedy.
But it's impossible to exist without causing some harm to another — no matter how good your intentions.
As a saying from my country goes: Hell is full of good intentions.