Argument #4,891 (his personal favorite): Why create something so innately flawed, then just when it seems to be learning, kill it? Why didn't you just kill me and get it over with? What's with this cat and mouse game? Who the hell am I talking to?

He had days like this from time to time. The raging torrent of words seemed to be never-ending. The self-loathing and battle to keep his sanity would go on for hours. In the end he had to force himself to acknowledge that he wasn't such a horrible creature, after all. How could he be? How could he function if he hated himself so much? Why not just put a bullet in his head, end it all? The questions just kept coming and he kept having to come up with the same answers time and again. He desperately wanted to believe he wasn't a bad person. Such a simple, even silly sentiment. A childhood fantasy. Or nightmare, choose your weapon.

During these times, no one could approach, he wouldn't hear anything anyone else said, see anyone else. Time and space meant nothing. He could hold entire conversations and never remember a word, drive for miles and run out of gas without understanding why. These times were blistering white and deepest black. Many would label these the most morose of self-indulgences. In a way, they were, but they seemed to be necessary somehow.

Wait, weren't the anti-depressants supposed to make everything better? Wasn't that supposed to be the breakthrough? The haziness had worn off, the slings and arrows didn't seem quite as sharp, but still they were there. Always there. Did he really expect a chemical concoction to change reality?

He so wanted someone to reach in and touch him without drawing blood. It seemed impossible. Every time he tried, a piece of him had been torn away. How much had to be chipped away until you were satisfied? He had to make sense of this horror called life. Hadn't he said it wasn't a test? What was it then? Something to be endured, something to be muddled through? So many walls, so many thorned hedges. He was so tired of the questions. So tired of coming up with answers.

None of this was original to him. To anyone. Poems, tomes, religions, entire philosophies struggled with these questions. Who was he to come up with the definitive answer? Could it be that simple? Just live day to day, put his trust in… in what? Something outside himself, something bigger than himself? It didn't make sense. It didn't track. He simply couldn't do it. He would shake himself out of this funk, but he would have failed. Again. The cycle would begin again.

Maybe this time it would take a little longer to get to the darkness. With any luck it would be a long time coming. He could wait.