Maybe I should just give up school and start a permanent violin practise until I drop dead either from physical exhaustion, lack of nutrition, mental boredom or simply from desperation.

Maybe I should just give up my violin playing as it is wholly worthless anyway. I'll lie on my bed all day feeling energy-less and depressed, waiting for something unexpected to happen. I'll build a fire with the wood of my violin in the middle of my room to keep me warm, refusing to turn the central heating on all through the winter.

I'll enjoy the flickering of the flames as I listen to the crackling of the dry wood, the sparks and flares caused by the varnish and the twang of the strings as they snap one by one. I'll stay put, failing to possess any intention to extinguish what fascinates me and my soul to the deepest part of dark suffering, agony, torment, bitter woe, hardship and grief.

(Would I grant myself the pleasure of such affliction?)

I'll breathe as slowly and thoroughly as I can, inhaling all the strong stenches from the melting synthetic carpet beneath, the poisonous odours from my violin's gloss which heretofore never omitted to protect my precious instrument and the oppressive, stale smoke fumes which will senselessly cloak the interior of my lungs with a fatal layer of soot.

I'll recklessly withhold to open any window or door and patiently rest until the ever growing fire burns through the floor covering, catching the wooden floorboards to crawl along my room and until I heedlessly drift off into a theatre of ignorance and lose consciousness. In not much time my old English desk will inflame, resulting in all my paperwork in the drawers saved over the years to light up and burn away effortlessly; my cloths cupboard and chest of draws will kindle, weaken and fall down; my bookcase and all its eminent contents will ignite and the legible information absorbed and adopted by my mind will be ruined; and finally my bed, my light wooden bed with me on it, will be set on fire and burned as my flesh soaks up the heat and steals the flames. My body will scorch, my soul will screech, my flesh will shrivel, form inflamed swellings and lead the heat through to within my malformation.

After all it would not matter; I would not have a violin to keep me alive.

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I feel so