I think about dying all the time

In this moment, I don’t have another outlet for this. I think about myself dead often. I think about the moment it happens, how I look, who will find me, and what I did to cause it. I think about how the world will look the moment I’m gone, and how it will still go on. A minuscule fraction of the population of humanity will barely care. I feel everything, and it all matters to me. My, wouldn’t it be great to stop this feeling? To turn it off and on like a light switch, but rarely do I ever want it on. Rarely do I ever want to feel everything all at once. Why must I be far too fragile for the common person. How did they become so rough around the edges, in their corners and in between? I feel for them, but there I go again- feeling. Do I ever stop? Not until I’m dead.