Is any of it real? I mean, look at this. Look at it! A world built on fantasy! Synthetic emotions in the form of pills, psychological warfare in the form of advertising, mind-altering chemicals in the form of food, brainwashing seminars in the form of media, controlled isolated bubbles in the form of social networks. Real? You want to talk about reality? We haven’t lived in anything remotely close to it since the turn of the century. We turned it off, took out the batteries, snacked on a bag of GMOs while we tossed the remnants in the ever-expanding dumpster of the human condition. We live in branded houses trademarked by corporations built on bipolar numbers jumping up and down on digital displays, hypnotizing us into the biggest slumber mankind has ever seen. You have to dig pretty deep, kiddo, before you can find anything real. We live in a kingdom of bull****, a kingdom you’ve lived in for far too long. So don’t tell me about not being real. I’m no less real than the f*****g beef patty in your Big Mac.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the slowest kid in gym class or the fastest man alive, every one of us is running. Being alive means running; running from something; running to something or someone. And no matter how fast you are, there are some things you can’t outrun; some things always manage to catch up to you.
You’re all prisoners. What you call sanity, it’s just a prison in your minds that stops you from seeing that you’re just tiny little cogs in a giant absurd machine. Wake up! Why be a cog? Be free like us. Just remember, smile.
Maybe I am a mess. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m out of my mind! But, God help me, I will keep these lights up until the day I die if I think there’s a chance that Will’s still out there!
You stick with me, Vera. We’re going to get through this. I have no intention of getting killed. Death is for other people, not for us.
I read a theory once that the human intellect was like peacock feathers. Just an extravagant display intended to attract a mate. All of art, literature, a bit of Mozart, William Shakespeare, Michelangelo, and the Empire State Building. Just an elaborate mating ritual. Maybe it doesn’t matter that we have accomplished so much for the basest of reasons. But, of course, the peacock can barely fly. It lives in the dirt, pecking insects out of the muck, consoling itself with its great beauty.
Everybody dies sooner or later. Don’t worry about your death. Worry about your life. Take charge of your life for as long as it lasts.
The real violence, the violence that I realized was unforgivable, is the violence that we do to ourselves, when we’re too afraid to be who we really are.
Hey, it’s Hannah. Hannah Baker. Don’t adjust your… whatever device you’re hearing this on. It’s me, live and in stereo. No return engagements, no encore, and this time, absolutely no requests. Get a snack. Settle in. Because I’m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you’re listening to this tape, you’re one of the reasons why.