Two Hundred and Eighty Two

 I lay in bed last night, trying to read another chapter of the book; but eventually I gave up. 

I decided to give up reading the book as well.  I’m an old man with no time to waste reading books that are difficult to read—no time to waste reading anything, doing anything.

A great calm descended on me.  Nothing was worth doing, so I would do nothing.  I would wait to die.

After my last suicide attempt failed, I decided I wouldn’t try to kill myself again because I was already dead in every way that mattered.  I would wait to die naturally.

This morning, I woke and tried again to read the book.  It was difficult, but not impossible.        

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to die.  The desire to understand has kept me alive.

I used to understand other people better than they understood themselves.  They behaved irrationally, but in predictable ways.  Now they’re going completely insane.  

If I'm no longer able to understand what I read, or why other people do what they do, the part of me that doesn't want to die seems ready to accept that it would be pointless to go on living. 

I may have a reason to live, but they don't.  They want to destroy themselves, and I don’t want to see what they’ll do next.