Do you ever find yourself writing letters that you’ll never send? I don’t mean actual pen and paper letters, like maybe written down on your computer or as a draft in your inbox?
I’m doing it more often these days.
I write letters to everyone. Family. Friends. And you.
I think if I went I’d want them to be delivered to people. They are my essence. My everything. I don’t know any kind of post mortem delivery system for the suicidal though.
I find myself staring at the belt more and more. Nothing special. An old brown leather belt. It holds my weight, I’ve checked. So does the bed post. All I need now is an opening and I’m bolting for the bright, white light. No talking me down from this ledge anymore, I’m just so tired of getting up so high and slipping.
Robin Williams did it, how hard could it be? Why do I have to be funny for one more day? Why do I have to wear a smile? To make you happy? To put you at ease? That hardly seems fair.
I can’t watch Jack without welling up anymore.