Is It, Really?
Is It, Really? They say, “You’re bound for hell if you end your own life,” as if salvation was written in black and white. But tell me is it, really? When everything feels unbearably heavy that despair drips into every thought like rain that never stops, is it still that simple? When the mind is so clouded with consuming self-doubt and suffocating sadness that judgment is shattered beyond reason is it, really? For how can one call it choice when the soul is no longer free, when death is not desired, but mistaken for release? Would you not see that the heart is suffocating, not rebelling? That the pain is not defiant, but pleading for a quiet cry for rest that the world could not give? So I ask again, is it truly a sin to believe that peace may be easier felt in death than it ever was in life?