Menthal Cigarettes. Is That Okay With You?

What can I say, except that I don't know where I'm going.
What is the point to this highly pointless life?
At this time, mass suicide seems a good option.
No sadness or pain, only the general ending of all things.
Perhaps in the afterlife, pain is only an inconsequential part of the existance that is not quite life,
As it is not quite death,
As it is an uncomfortable median between the two.
Perhaps joy is kin to the ripping and tearing that is an animal attacking my heart.
Ripping it to absolute bloody, messy shreds.
This animal is something sometimes known as loss, sometimes known as brokeness, but it does not appear publicly under these names.
No, the alias for this terrible beast is this.
Love.
Ah, love.
The pounding heart, the nauseau, the rising of the bile, your lunch floating high atop it like a pirate at his post.
The whisper and synchronization of lips moving together.
The days and days of endless work under the boiling sun, working together for one greater cause, for one greater good, building and building upon a building that will never be finished, until one day...
Work slows. The two that became one begin to seperate at the seams, and the building ages.
And then it tumbles.
Swiftly, violently, crashing to the ground, bleeding it's mortar onto the ground.
Nothing will ever prepare you for the emptiness in your chest after the fatal words fall from his pale lips,
Like daggers, attacking and stabbing in every direction, each one hitting it's mark.
Bullseye.
The undying pain.
And so we are here, in this middle land.
Praying for death, so we do not have to endure one more minute in this mire.