The old me is dead. It was awhile back when that I decided to kill him, but it took a long time to pull the trigger. A person fears death and will try anything to fight it. I remember the last thing he asked me, who I would be if I were to actually kill myself?
This wasn’t the first time he’d asked me this rhetorical question. It’d actually been his ace argument, the one he reached for when I looked like I would finally do it. And each occasion it’d caused me to fold like a cheap suit, my palms wet with sweat and the revolver becoming a source of anxiety rather than power. Every time I had failed to pull the trigger because of the answers I came up with to this question. Who would I be… if not me?
I was like a dung beetle, hopelessly clinging onto my ball of rolling feces. I had nothing going for me, but I still couldn’t help but feel pride in myself, even though all I had was a giant ball of shit. Plus, my life had a theme, a message, a constant reminder: be yourself. The axiom became so ingrained into my psyche that I never questioned it, no more than I would question the morality of cold-murder. It simply became a moral to live by. Be yourself. Everyone else was doing it as well, or was trying to.
I remember a couple of my friends who became atheist in high school. Now at the age of 27, I guess I had grown tired of being myself. I loved myself too much to continue being the useless waste of potential I had been. I loved me so much that I killed him.
So now who am I? All I can say is: go ahead and kill yourself, and you'll see.