I would finally push the fucking cart over the edge, the cinderblocks falling and pulling me down with them.
At this point, it would be fairly likely for them to break my neck before I even touch the water, ending me swiftly. But if not, I'd plunge into the river, the heacy weights taking me to the riverbed with me as I fruitlessly try to break free.
I would probably regret this decision immediately but it would be too late. Even as my survival instincts kick in, I know, deep down, that this is it. Still, my body would panic, trying to reach the surface and undo this poor decision-making, trying to save my dumb brain from its poor choices of carrier path. It would feel terrible, and I haven't even started to drown yet.
I would feel my lungs hurt gradually more and more as my mind slowly realizes that this is indeed it, still trying to swim up... unsuccessfully.

Eventually, I would finally let my CO2-filled air out, painfully taking in water, getting the fucking pain I deserve. It would hurt. A fucking lot. The water will destroy these lungs and cleanse them from the air wasted to keep my fucking trash existence alive.

Finally, as my brain starts failing, I would see glimpses of my shitty life and maybe of some of my happiest memories from moments long gone. Maybe they would put me at peace as my body goes limp. Maybe I would feel some relief at this point.

And then...

... I wouldn't feel any relief. No happiness, either. Nothing, really. Because I'll be dead. Making this whole experience... pointless? Why would I kill myself if there isn't even any relief at the end?

So there's no reason for me to do it. But these invasive thoughts are still here.
It's been a long time but I should book an appointment with my therapist again.

Good night anons, ttyl.