I have probably thought about killing myself twenty or thirty thousand times in my life.
Why does life have to throw you in there and rip you to shreds?
Why does everyone have to treat you like dog shit, over the smallest things, such that you can never imagine that it would be worthwhile to grow past your pain, that there is nothing dear in this life? Why does it take so little to reduce someone so much? Why does their pain have to be so great when all they wanted was to love? When all they needed was a little recognition? All they needed was an impression put to them that there was something worth living and striving for.
Why can someones entire life be invalid essentially because they have health problems with chronic tension and chronic pain. Because they have chronic tension and chronic pain, they are not worthy to see love in this world? They are not worthy to be treated humanely and seen to be worth speaking with?
They are not worthy to see the beautiful intercourse of lives miraculous and dear?
The beautiful American word, Sure,
As I have come into a room, and touch
The lamp’s button, and the light blooms with such
Certainty where the darkness loomed before,
As I care for what I do not know, and care
Knowing for little she might not have been,
And for how little she would be unseen,
The intercourse of lives miraculous and dear.
Where the light is, and each thing clear,
separate from all others, standing in its place,
I drink the time and touch whatever’s near,
And hope for day when the whole world has that face:
For what assures her present every year?
In dark accidents the mind’s sufficient grace.
Where are my two American words “Sure”?
I wonder how I should kill myself. I believe I should disappear. Cover all my traces and expire somewhere at the end of the world. Maybe I should prepare some digital communications to mislead people that I am somewhere out there leading a happy life. Saying things that would hearten them to be brave and love well.
What am I going to do with all my money? What good can be done with money? Maybe I could give it to those who gave me my only sweet moments, even if I only had oblivion thereafter. Maybe I should meet some new people and perhaps find someone who deserves my money, who it would help live a worthy and a happy life. How would I give it to them, since I can’t tell them I am giving them my money in a farewell suicide. I don’t want them to know that. This is my bullet to bite, alone.
Should I wait until my parents die?
Should I leave anything behind? Am I worthy to leave remnants, even anonymously, on a plot of land in a far out wilderness, or suburb, or city? Am I just beyond the threshold of love, from which there is no coming back, from which anything sent back has lost all its backing and is just a noisy pile of kipple?
If I had a tombstone, what would I put on it? Where would I put it? I only wanted to love. I only wanted to be generous. I only wanted to be spirited. I only wanted to be artful. I only wanted to enjoy myself with others.