Eighteen

Death is not what I fear. Death is what enables me to go on living. Only the knowledge that this torment is not eternal, and will one day end, enables me to endure it.

I am sad for the world, not for myself. I would like to believe it will go on without me, and people will be happy without me, loving the world and each other; but they don’t love each other or the world. I don’t know why.

There is something wrong with our race, something that makes us destructive and self-destructive. We all know it. We used to call it a curse. Now we call it a genetic defect. It is good that we have finally accepted it, and are killing ourselves. The only bad thing is that we are killing the world as well.