In life we chase this elusive concept, meaning, a fleeting, cowardly concept that does whatever it can to make itself vague to us, meaning is a demon of life. It's created to taunt one, to be sparsely given to those who are not you, to give you some sort of impossible idea that meaning is something that will come to you, and that with enough hard work and kindness, the karmic system will eventually reward you with a reason to be, a reason to live.
Sadly, the karmic system does not exist, it's a false concept made to give us closure for every wrongdoing that's ever occurred to us, but it's simply not real, truly the only way to find happiness is to kill the beast within us, the beast we call empathy. Empathy is a disgraceful little monster, fighting against basic evolution and forcing us to care about people we realistically shouldn't care about. To kill empathy means that the problems of others will not burden you, it means that the wrongdoings you've committed will never haunt you, and most importantly, you'll be able to advance yourself and yourself only. Some people are born with a strong enough sense of empathy that they can't kill the whinging little monster, so instead they spread love and kindness and all of those vapid pleasantries you hear about so often.
But what about those in the middle?
The ones born to hurt other people, the ones who don't have enough empathy to properly care and help other people, not enough to maintain any meaningful relationships, and yet the creature is too resilient to kill. They may turn to therapy, they may turn to religion, they may turn to drugs, but like any other good thing in life, it will not last, it will fade, it will gradually help less and less until all it does is drain you further because you're stubbornly entertaining the idea that things will get better.
Relief is temporary, pain is forever.
Often these are the people who know that there's no karmic system, that meaning and destiny are what they are, fiction we tell ourselves to make us feel like things have some sort of predictability. The people who look over their shoulder and hate what they see, hate what they were, the people who wished that they pulled the trigger sooner.
Nostalgia is another concept that has no real meaning.
Look back to when you were a child, odds are, your parents never told you about any of the worst parts of life, that they kept you away from the news, and they gave you fun things that you remember to this day. And today you still hold those things up and cherish them. But truthfully, the only reason you have such fond memories with it is because you were never burdened by anything at the time, you never had to juxtapose the Nintendo 64 or the GameCube with relationships lost, friends you've fallen out with, people you've hurt, or your own meaningless existence. No, you were blissfully unaware that, in life, your biggest enemy will always be yourself, and that no matter how many people hurt you in life, it's what you've done that will always haunt you, things you can never fix.
So why not end it?
I see no true problem with this, myself, if there is no afterlife, it's not like you'd be conscious and able to find out, no, things would just go dark and cut off, and if there is an afterlife, what kind of monster would cast you to a fiery pit for understandably being sick of what they've bombarded you with. There's honestly nothing like the sweet feeling of resignation, giving up, letting it all go... Admitting to yourself, "Hey, this isn't working, this won't work, this is a waste of time, and I'm gonna quit this before I make things worse." Giving up is the best way to go about things that are too difficult, what other options do you realistically have? Perpetually tossing yourself at a wall until it finally breaks down? Sure, you've made a doorway, but you've battered and bruised your own body in the process during what was a mostly pointless endeavor.
The wheel of fate will continue rolling and it will gladly leave you behind.
But the question is, why haven't I, and why haven't many of us written off our stories yet? It's not because we think it'll get better, it's not because we're scared, it's because that sickeningly sweet monster, empathy, will not stop lying to us and controlling our bodies. Telling us that people will miss us, or that you'll only hurt those you care about, even though you living is enough to hurt them. We'll kill the beast some day, don't you worry, we'll find a way to silence the lying little monster some day, and when we do, we'll clean out that gene pool and let everyone move right along, not because all of us want to, but because it's the right thing to do, because it's the only good thing we would have done.