Scratching the Wall with a Filed Down Spoon
And it's not about getting old. It's just about... I don't know. I feel like I'm in a cell, and that I should scratch a mark into the wall for one more year down. That much closer to when I can get out of here. Or be eligible for parole, if I should be that lucky.
There are times when the prospect of Olam Haba simply horrifies me. I know that we don't know what it's going to be like, but I can't even begin to imagine anything that would make up for this life. My gut tells me it's just going to be more of the same, and that maybe there'll be no end to it. Imagine: no oblivion. Ever. I can't imagine anything more depressing.
The phrase "It didn't come too soon" keeps echoing in my head. I'm just so bloody tired of all of this.