Suicide

What a comforting thought is suicide. Not because of the death. One does not consider that. Rather, it is the release of life.
Not to grow up or old. Not to see the ravages of age. Not to face responsibilities. Not to feel the pain of growth. Not to pay the price, of love, of life, of self.
One does not think of dying. One thinks of quitting, of ending. It is not that way. It is death: It is decay. It is the sorrow of loved ones.
It is forbidden to wisdom. A comforting thought, an impossible act. A dream of escape in the lonely night. Possible, maybe, when travelling is not. There really is no escape.