More writing, with absolutely no idea where to take it next. I think I have the beginnings of about four or five stories that are taunting me — “You can’t keep this up after the first few paragraphs!”

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“End this,” the voice in my head keeps saying. “End this.” It’s not quite a command, it’s not really begging or even really that insistent. It’s more like a voice that is trying to inject some calm and rationality into an impossibly volatile situation, like a hostage negotiator attempting to reach a human part of a dangerous gunman, trying to touch that part of him that might still feel some empathy for his victim, might reach that reasonable part of his mind before any final explosion of violence leads to irrevocable results.

“End this.”

In this case the impossibly volatile situation is the never ending slow-motion disaster my life has become, with shocking albeit dawdling brutality, over the last two and a half years.

“End this.”

It’s a voice that promises rest and resolution, an end to pain, a conclusion of grief, a final curtain on the terror and panic that comes with each new morning. It almost sounds like the voice of God, the way I imagined it back in more carefree days when I still believed that some supersized nice guy lived in the sky somewhere and cared what happened to children and small animals in a cruel world filled with vicious people. It’s like the voice of God calling you home after an arduous life filled with pain and unfairness, with a promise that you will have rest and there will be recompense for all you endured, all that you could not forgive but God would pay back for you.

“End this.”

And I am sorely tempted to obey it. And I would obey it, quickly, if it wasn’t for the absolutely insane and completely irrational belief that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow might turn out microscopically better than today. And there are days I have to fight, to claw, to scratch for enough reasons to not obey the voice today, and I must confess there are days when I can’t come up with any reasons at all.

The voice is friendly. It is reassuring. It calms me and almost convinces me that I’m still loved, loved enough that someone somewhere cares that this all be over, that I can finally take a real, full, deep breath and relax all my muscles, sit down, recline, close my eyes and sleep. And sleep. And before I drift away I would finally be able to say to all the demons in the world, and believe it, “This is okay. Everything is okay. I surrender. I’m not going to fight you anymore.”

“End this.”