I've always wanted to die.

Now that I can spare a thought to it as I have all the time in the world, I think that the only thing that I've ever wished for in my cruel and unforgiving life has always been death.

It is the only desire, that I ever hoped would promptly come to pass, if and only if there was an absolute certainty that all of it would come to an end.

Because even though I lived close to no more than two decades in a vicious world, the only thing that struck fear and despair in my heart was a feeling, an intense foresight of sorts that itched the deep entrails of my gut to say — death was never the end to misery.

So, in my dreams, now that I can care to think about it, an absence from existence is all that I've ever prayed for.

So, anyone else who promptly held a fantasy such as mine would have felt a happiness beyond description, that intense joy of that volcanic sort that most people strive for their whole lives when a solid mass from the debris of a dying building came crashing onto me, as it rained missiles from a sky lit on fire.

But even as the rubble spawned onto me, instantly crushing my bones and my skull, even then as the light in my eyes was forever about to fade, there was nothing I could sense that would bring me delight.

Not even a speck of what others would call a fleeting emotion of anguish in the face of eternal darkness.

Not because I've grown numb to the pain, nor because I have become less of a human being, but because right at that moment when I was almost about to die, I knew that I was always going back to a hellish world much worse than before.

And though it was always only an intuition of mine, I now know I was right.

There is no end to my suffering.

There is no end despair.

When I come to my senses, I wake my gaze up to a profound darkness.

Though this is a new, and an uncharted reality that I find myself in, there is something so familiar about it, that one could almost feel that its familiarity as tangible.

Yet I realize there is just something about this bleakness, that one could never cognize when they are alive.

Not that I of all people would know if you can or cannot feel it whatever it is when you are alive in a rich world of love and hope, but this surely isn't a thing that one could easily memorize as something natural when they are living.

Waiting for the nothingness to stir, whirl, or whatever a cosmic dread of the afterlife does to wake the fuck up to set its affairs straight, I simply take this chance as my providence to comprehend my current situation.

The bits and parts of it at least.

I have a form. And surprisingly, for the first time in a long time, I don't feel eerily disgusted by it.

It is of course, not of flesh or bones. Nor am I made of some other form of matter or energy even.

Yet, my heart still beats the same hope-craving, sickening way even in this lousy, gutter substitute of a slacking illusion that has nothing to do with whatever I theorized death would seem like.

Still I try to accept and keep up with this new actuality, because what other choice have I been spared?

As I try to understand the constituents of what I am, I quickly realize that I can move around freely.

"Finally," I tell myself out loud, which is how I realize that I am capable of speech too.

Surely, I think, how all of this is a true novelty that I should be grateful for. It is a gift, I realize, which has a degree of freedom that I was never spared when I was living.

And if this was supposedly designed to plunge me into a much greater despair, I would still daringly accept it as long as there is some clause of liberty.

Just as that thought crosses my state of mind, however, the darkness shatters as it dissipates and dissolves as vibrant shades of colors consume every inch of the space that I now dwell in, like an insatiable appetite.

It soon fills everything with an intense detail, like a reflex and an impulse of a greater being, yet as soon as this new change reaches the zone of my existence, it quickly comes to a halt.

Jeez.

An utter stagnation in here too? Can't anyone come up with an ounce of originality to torture the souls of the dead? I think.

Before I could cognize anything, however, a spiraling concept introduces itself into the picture-perfect image that was created, corrupting it but not consuming it.

It soon tries to reach outside the asymmetrical rift it had just created, but as soon as a distant hand of rotting, distorted mass tries to conceive itself onto the other side where I am locked, a bright light ignites it on a pure, unbridled fire of pure, sparkling star glitter, restricting any further movement.

As this happens, for a mere moment, an instinct takes over my being, as even now in this state of being dead, I reflexively try to cover my eyes frantically, as I blurt out a random assemblage of sounds that make up an icky, annoying word, "Tsk!"

Tskkk??

What am I even doing? I ponder.

But ugh, it is too late already, as a voice on the other side promptly whispers faintly like the gentlest of winds as it says, "Ah," almost like a suppressed moan.

"It appears there's been some sort of a mistake," says it, as something quickly grabs every part of me, squeezing whatever's left of me.

Only because there is nothing of that sort left in me, the grab softens, but it doesn't let go.

"I haven't introduced myself yet," it speaks oh so gracefully. "Have I?"

Before I could even think of what to answer, however, the entirety of what was left of my astral entrails forcefully declared to be let off my form, but as for the exit, there was no such thing.

As I struggle desperately to throw up, my lips are sealed in strings of unbreakable bindings, and as I gargle my insides over and over again in disgust without a release, a flooding waves of clear, clean water engulfs me in a spiral, but still, it doesn't touch me to affect me but it does whirl the entirety of my environment to just try and affect me.

"Ugh" sighs the voice frantically in a frown and anger as nothing seems to happen.

"I'm sorry," it says.

"I'm sorry…? Chuckles the strange voice of crackling distortion at me as I am still brawling the tides with misery held deep inside without leniency for an end to it.

"What was your name again?" it asks me as everything comes to a halt with a forceful, sharp sound of a snap being its trigger.

I spill open everything that is inside me, but all that comes out of my mouth is all shahdes of colors neatly crafted into tiny pieces of ornate décor.

"Your name?" screams the voice at me impatiently, and before I could realize it, cognize a suitable answer for this situation, I seem to have already mumbled the words "I don't know" which certainly generously reek of fear and despair.

Me?

I don't know what my name was? I think.

Why am I even surprised?

It was always going to be this way, so I try to remain as calm as possible as I try to analyze what this thing is and what I am supposed to do with it.

Can I even do something if I tried? 

But I cannot hold anything that remotely crosses my mind as I babble again a question, "Are you god?" with the purest of obedience one could hold for a greater power.

"A god?!" screams the voice almost immediately in a fit of rage, "You dare call me a mere god?" it questions me, but as it does, its form collapses in on itself, reducing in size as the darkness takes over the realm of my consciousness like night after day.

"Help" I scream straight away.

"Please. If you can, help me. End this. End everything," I say.

"Um," says the voice as its size is now reduced to nothing more than a shimmering dot amidst the colorful shades as the darkness still eats away the rest of what's left from before.

"Um," says the voice as its size is now reduced to nothing more than a shimmering dot amidst the colorful shades as the darkness still eats away the rest of what's left from before.

"Please" I try to insist now that I still have a choice.

"Please!! I have been stuck in an endless lo…"

"Shh" marks the voice, as my ability of speech ceases to exist at its command.

Yet, I try hard to get sounds out of my form, even it is all non-sense in wake of my desperation, but the strange, eerie voice simply goes — "I could help you"

"But should I??" as it starts to laugh frantically, in pure joy or in utter insanity..

Why? I think.

Why is there still hope left in me even when I know how it is going to work out in the end?

Why do I even try?

There is no end to my misery.

There is nothing except stagnation and despair forever and ever.

And just as I think of it, the bleak vortex takes shape right next to me, and this time it interacts with me as the dark gains a mass plausible enough to engulf me, to swallow me.

And just like that, it is over yet again for me.

I will be born again, I think. I will live miserably hoping that I will die, and then I'd die anyway to repeat it all over again.

End this.

End me.

Someone.

Anyone. Please.

As I struggle to stay intact as my cognition shatters into pieces while I am sucked into nothingness, I finally give up.

I cannot do it.

I am helpless. I am nothing more than a plaything in whatever I am conceived in. And there is nothing I can do.

"I should help this poor thing" the voice continues to ramble on while I suffer, and just when I am about to be fully engulfed, a bursting snap echoes again throughout time and space as it promptly puts a stop to it at once.

Or at least, as my vision would grant it, I can see it has slowed the process down.

 "I have…" speaks the voice, as a tiny bit of color remains in the darkness. "Decided to help you," it says almost laughing.

"I could, so I would, and because I should" it continues crackling like a child, or a dead man.

"Are you kidding me?" I finally burst out in a rage that disgusts every atom in my being.

"I am not your plaything," I tell it. "I am not something…"

"Oh," the voice smirks stopping me.

"Oh, but yes you are!" it says.

"You see, your creator, a god as you spoke its name earlier, has sold you to us. We are simply using what we've spent our hard-earned valuables to good use."

"To keep us entertained"

"If you have any issues with that," it says, "Then go fight your god" it bursts out laughing again saying that.

"Go kill god" it says.

"Sold me?" I mumble confused.

"I'm just your plaything?" I babble as I try hard to think.

It all makes sense now. The only reason I have been this miserable this entire life, the only reason why I couldn't find happiness, or peace, or at the very least some mere moments of quiet, untainted seconds in life is because of them.

While the vortex still has only my supposed head in this astral form to consume to end me whole, I finally realize the extent of my true despair.

There is nothing I can do.

There is nothing I could have done.

Even now as it will all happen over and over again, there is nothing I could possibly do but to accept my fate and let it drag me however it wishes.

But just when there is only a small fraction of me left still, "I will help you," the voice continues interrupting my thinking yet again while I try hard to remain.

As I try hard to think of a way to run and escape from whatever mechanic that I'm bound to right now, it continues to mock and crock as it says, "Oh, but can I help you?"

"But it appears that my time has run out already," it says, just when I am about to burst in a fit of rage and sadness saying, I don't need its help.

And just as the vortex wildly gains momentum, and I'm almost done for, "Here," says the voice, as a small whirling mass of colors approaches me as I disintegrate, "It'll surely help you when you kill…" it crackles.

"It will" the voice disappears as the darkness finally sucks me whole.

And even though I try to resist it, it stirring color sticks me when I refuse its help.

I will make whoever it was who put me in this position pay for what they have done to me. And I will kill all the gods and whatever beings that are stronger than god if it means that I can finally lay in peace for a second.

I will do it.

I will kill myself.