Letter 2

I killed him.
I killed him I killed him I killed him I killed him.
Dead in the shadows. Six underground. Never again to be seen, heard, uttered or found. There's a peacefulness in death, a quiet sanctuary of the lack of existence. I wish I were there now.
I never asked to be born. Have any of us? I didn't think so. And yet we are forced to endure this blip that is our reality, or realities. What is consciousness? A mere matrix of firing synapses? A electromagnetic labyrinth of organic matter, chemical reaction after chemical reaction, one building over the other? Most likely. And yet most of us sheep are content in basking in delusion, silently wading through this realm basking in the illustrious nature of our own lies? How can one be so obsessed with the pursuit of truth when they cannot accept the grim reality of the universe?
I may never know.