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I feel like suicide is the force that is inexorably pulling me forward. The sea was enough for Ishmael, but I require less finite voyages; a sea beyond the universe is the water that drags me to it like a stream into the Atlantic. All men, to some degree, at one time or another, cherish nearly the same feelings toward the great abyss as I do. Am I then a Raskolnikov? Or a Don Quixote? The answer is both and neither. I happen to be utterly mad, full of the delusions of "superman." I would laugh if it weren't so contemptible—to be sat down and laughed at by everyone I have ever known. That would be the kind of hell I deserve. I drag my feet along, like tugging a ball and chain that represents both my shame and my fear. Maybe murder would pay the karmic debt. Even as I write this, my egocentrism is exercising the full force of its might, as if these words could be my salvation. And even if no one reads it, or particularly enjoys it—which, of course, I remind myself is perfectly fine, because it is a bottom-feeding plea for some sort of recognition, some death-rattle claptrap my meager brain has brought forth to perhaps convince me, against the odds, not to open the door of my third-storey apartment and lunge headfirst off its balcony, strangely hoping to die and to survive—it is still a quiet plea for God's salvation, atheist though I am.