Sometimes I wish I could numb myself, stop the pain I feel, the necessity for affection and love. Sometimes, I wish I could extinguish the life out of me, certain that the resulting person would probably do a better job at being useful and entertaining to others – at being somebody worth having around, even if only for funny or the silly, in a relationship so shallow that it might as well not exist.
An empty husk, a shadow of my former self… yet better. After all, who cares about the rest, about what goes inside? Who cares about everything that is left unsaid? Listen. Make them laugh. Encourage them to become better versions than who they are, and support them along the way. That should be enough. Even only two out of three should go a long way. At the very least, I would be a good way to kill time with. And then life would come back and they’d forget, storing the memories away as some sort of fuel to get through the boring day-to-day, only remembering – if at all – when it was time once again to live. Not that I would care, being used for this very task.
I can’t help but think of all the people that would remain happy with it. At worse I’d fade from memory, and at best they get to keep me around, creating memories with me. Certainly, my parents would be some to remain happy. I would finally be fixed! No longer in pain, no longer swinging from being at the edge to feeling like today is the best day of my life. They’d see a mask of happiness, and they would believe it. Why wouldn’t they? And so would my acquaintances. I know, I’m indulging, but I doubt there would be any remarks… or if any, they’d probably say that I’m better now.
And I’m willing to take the leap. I’m willing to choose what I consider death if it means doing my part on helping others enjoy themselves. If that decision leads to someone else being slightly happier than they would have been otherwise, it would seem selfish to me not to take it.