I can't believe I'm alive

Back when I imagined myself to be psychic, I predicted that I wouldn't live past the age of 18.

Well, it's been three whole years, and I'm still not sure. On the one hand, I'm receiving sensual imagery from all sources but one, close to my life pre-personal apocalyptic prophecy. On the other, how do I know? I mean, living as a rock may have been similar to what I've experienced; I've witnessed days, nights, seasons, people walking by, conversation, a void of emotion and shows of incredible pliability. Well, maybe the last is more like the resin of a rubber tree, inanimate nonetheless.

I guess the question I'm forced to face is, do I believe that I'm still alive?

In order to believe, according to my own predictions, I'd have to refute the existence of a soul, the importance of spirit, and utterly reject my fancy ideas from when I was too scared to drive a car... I have been living as a dead vessel, waiting for someone else to fill me with a point.

I guess meditation sans guru, in a state of love and pride starvation probably had me thinking pretty morbidly at that age. But what I think I need to do is even more melodramatic. I need to kill my sad little self.

Not the self I am now. If I still choose to believe in all that hocus pocus divine purpose nebulae of thought, then that's impossible, as I'm already dead. I've already accomplished killing my future self in forgetting how to live lively. What this zombie needs to do is kill the creator of that horribly deceptive lie, that vindictive little girl who was tired of searching the walls for meaning.

I'm out of the hole, and now I can start walking in the sunshine and the rain.