Why is it so alluring to fantasize about the world after your suicide or death?
Is it just fascinating to speculate upon the impact you’ll have had?
Do you just feel so meaningless and frozen that it’s the only impact you can see yourself causing?
Are you just so numb that imagining the grief of friends and family, or the horror of the cruel indifference of the world, is the only way to breach the shell?
Maybe you just can’t let yourself fantasize about the act itself, and imagining the aftermath is the next best thing?
Perhaps it’s cathartic to see the world without you in it.
One way or another, you’ll never find out how accurate you were.
Why is it so alluring to fantasize about the world after your suicide or death?
Is it just fascinating to speculate upon the impact you’ll have had?
Do you just feel so meaningless and frozen that it’s the only impact you can see yourself causing?
Are you just so numb that imagining the grief of friends and family, or the horror of the cruel indifference of the world, is the only way to breach the shell?
Maybe you just can’t let yourself fantasize about the act itself, and imagining the aftermath is the next best thing?
Perhaps it’s cathartic to see the world without you in it.
One way or another, you’ll never find out how accurate you were.
I do feel that way sometimes.