Desperado

From the depths of the tarry pits I cry, a muffled snort piercing the dim darkness around as the incoherent sound falls into its own noiseless shadow.
How can something that was meant to go so well turn out so incredibly, horribly wrong? Tomorrow I return to the same fiery chasm. I hate my life. No more pretenses - no more flowery terms or silly expressions - I come clean - I hate my life. Desperation and despair have now set in and the rot has reached a raw nerve. Leave it to a master of melancholic repetition to continually intone in the gloomiest of baritones the slide into his own demise.
I'm too tired to write anymore. I shall slip into a fitful coma and pretend to be dead for a while. Oh yes, that would be nice. N.B. I do not condone suicide. It is bad for the species, not to mention costly to the ambulance services and detrimental to onlookers. Then again, pathologists must have a field day. Jigsaw puzzles all over again.
Indeed. Life is like a jigsaw puzzle - you never know which piece you're missing at the very end, so you write to the company hoping to get a replacement, only to find out they've gone out of business.
More to the point - (or actually, less so) - jigsaw puzzles and life - they're broken. Split along many planes, always presenting tricks to the mind, with subtle changes creeping between those jagged edges. The big picture can only be seen at the end, but we so often lose sight of it - just as we so often concentrate on the minutiae and details only to forget how to appreciate how cool life really is. I'm amused at how I've managed to somehow (albeit temporarily) write myself out of my little clot of misery. Cathartic, almost (I like saying that). I also (irritatingly) like brackets/parentheses. How incredibly awkward. I don't really know what to say.