End of the world
I started pondering the idea of death. No one around me was dead yet, but it was that I couldn’t think there was such thing as “meanings” in life. Softball practice was meaningless. Ingratiating to older girls was meaningless. Repeating “apple” for million times was meaningless. All these were imposed on us in the name of benefit, regardless of effect.
I’d trace my wrist with a paper knife, not so I could harm myself, but so I could imagine death. Death at the time felt like the only sense of liberation. So I played with the idea, first slicing the top layer of the skin, then slightly deeper, just enough for the blood to etch the scar. I’d look at my blood-stained wrist for a long time, fantasizing about the end of the world – and by the world, it meant school life. Death didn’t scare me, but it invigorated me.
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