Daydreams

I daydream of death. The somewhat soothing prospect of an end. I daydream about being unfit for this world - so unbelievably rough as experienced from a scrawny, feeble little soul. It's just daydreaming though, the daydreams of an immature mind. It doesn't come from any hardened resolve, some kind of profound truth that I was able to face. I haven't given up yet - I haven't had the courage to give up yet - a prospect so dreadful - I'm just playing with ideas and cliches. The answer to a felt, hopeless void can only be death. In between there can only be pain and illusions. And cowardly, I'm living for what I consider as illusions. Nothing, no one can ever fill me. I'm just in for more ugly hidden pain. Still I live on, passively. Deep down I feel slightly disgusted with myself. But that's ok, I'm used to self-induced nausea now. Someone please tell me this though: how is it that I keep fantasizing so ardently about being saved?