For years I have felt like I have seen enough of everything. I understand the empirical boundaries within which the existential experience happens. Once a thing is defined, it loses its allure. It becomes trash. I have defined existence and now my life is trash. The only gift I desire from life is to simply move on to whatever awaits beyond it. I LONG not to exist like I would long for home. This sentiment is widely regarded as mental illness. Lesser beings tell me that the will to breathe should equal the will to exist. They tell this with straight faces, oblivious to the possibility that perhaps it is them who never truly existed in the first place. They hardly understand that to live is to grow weary of the world. I reached this state of weariness when I was 13. Years later, the feeling has not gone away. It never will.