Hypocrisy is going to be inevitable in this exposition. Being able to discern the nuances of context, the inherent differences in situation, the fact remains that in the end, this type discourse is as farcical as a prisoner telling a fellow inmate that the burden of freedom really is too much, that it is best to go the way of the electric chair. It is a delusion, in a sense, of being attuned to the other's suffering, of what they're going through. To get anywhere at all, some degree of relatability must be taken as a matter of axiom. I haven't seen your sights, felt your feelings, but I have had something comparable. A facsimile of you resides in me, built to order. Anything less is idiotic.

The topic of a bleak life everlasting is going to come up inevitably, and it is a topic usually danced around, the lip of a volcano in a hypnagogic daze. Life is terrible, and it always will be. Wouldn't the only way to win the game be to stop playing?

Perhaps, but there is certainty staying here, wallowing in hell with the rest of us as we suffer in all our differences. In death, there only comes a wandering through the night, echoes of memories stumbling blindly. 

That might be the case, but who would want to live in times such as these? 

Indeed, who would?

The happenstance of the world brings with it a cacophonous matrix of probabilities, regularity being an artificial consistency made to keep us from going mad.

I won't try to argue that your circumstances are terrible, they are, obviously. We wouldn't be here otherwise. 

But it is worth mentioning that above all, this is a probability no one else must go through. In containing the invisible multitude of possibilities, being able to process one's grief is necessary. To cut one's lifeline is to cut all future possibilities, to abandon a speeding trainwreck by exiting through the window, to have one's neck snapped without any of the satisfaction of seeing how it all ends. 

I hope I have made myself clear. This talking is dreadful and it is a seat of words I chafe under.

But after all this, I suppose you still want to go through with it. I wouldn't blame you, it's a comforting thought to be able to cut yourself away from the monstrosity of today.

It may be for the best, I can't definitely say that it isn't. But in leaving, you'll have left the rest of us, all other strange loops a little less richer, the worlds we may have, altered imperceptibly for the negative. Loss is loss, no matter who it was. With the reaction we feel over the deaths of fictional characters, how more would we react with someone recognized as an actual person? Even if no one remembers you now, the indelible memory of you, the possibility of a person somewhere across the world dying because of factors outside of their own, pushed to shove themselves off places undescribable, is an undecipherable tragedy of human thought. 

I apologize, I haven't even told you not to do it yet. All these words and none of them giving a straightforward, Powerpointable reason to stay alive. Apologies.

I have said my piece.