I found the suicide note I had etched onto the library desk almost a year ago. I should have felt proud that I had not completed my threats but I don’t. I feel ashamed as despite the months of therapy and medication I still wish with all my heart to die. I don’t fully understand why as I have had every advantage society could possibly grant me. I have friends, an adequate intelligence and a loving family that are blissfully ignorant of their son’s dreams to be no more. I just find life so painful, so dark and noisy that I can’t think clearly, the world is confusing like an old radio that crackles in an abandoned building. I wish you could die of sadness and without the need to open a vain or express yourself upon a crowded pavement. People out there, people who are loved and bring beautiful brightness to the world are dying and I am not. I wish I could change places with them so that they could have my physical health and I could die without guilt. Perhaps that is hat those stories from the bible were trying to say. That Jesus did not die because he loved the world but he knew the life he had been given was meant for someone else – someone better. I wonder if my organs could be of use to someone else, I hope my kidneys haven’t been ruined by the years of alcoholism, or whether my brain could be used by science to find out how someone so incredibly lucky as I manages to be so sad. I don’t think I will do it today, probably not for quite a while. I need to know that those I love go on without my attempts to help. This is the only thought that comforts me. Jan 27 Everything Repeats.