There is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
People so tired
either by love or no love.
People just are not good to each other
one on one.
The rich are not good to the rich,
the poor are not good to the poor.
We are afraid.
Our educational system tells us
that we can all be
It hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
Or the terror of one person
aching in one place
watering a plant.
I perpetually wound myself emotionally to burn my will to overcome. Instead of attempting to fully cure myself, I will my own biological self-destruction.
We don’t “kill ourselves”. We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive. When somebody dies after a long illness, people are apt to say, with a note of approval, “He fought so hard.” And they are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.
Only after one has fully considered suicide does one take one’s life seriously.
Many individuals have said in effect that “I so fear death that I am driven to suicide.” The idea of suicide offers some surcease from terror. It is an active act; it permits one to control that which controls one.
I myself did not know what I wanted. I was afraid of life, I struggled to get rid of it, and yet I hoped for something from it.
I knew that I was dying
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as
then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
it needn’t be much, just a spark
a spark can set a whole forest on
just a spark
I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn’t let me.
But there’s some core-level spark of life that just isn’t there. Despite what’s been said about my having “gotten better” lately—the voice in my head that’s driving me crazy is louder than ever. It’s way beyond being reached by anyone or anything it seems. I can’t bear it any more. I think there’s something psychologically—twisted—reversed that has taken over, that I can’t fight any more. I wish that I could disappear without hurting anyone.
How most people carry on is a mystery. What they talk about at supper. How they can stand to sit in front of a TV from eight until Leno every night. How they can think bowling is fun. How they choose their neckties. How they bear the weight of everyday life without screaming. How a person can go through a whole life and never once contemplate suicide, like people who have never once wanted to be a movie star. How life goes in bad directions when your heart is asleep. It’s a mystery and there is no answer. (95)
Even if I left the world, I doubt anyone would notice, I would shout out from the dark, but no one would hear me. Still, I have to keep soldiering on until I die, the only way I know how. Not a laudable sort of life, but the only life I know how to live.
I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going–and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve got people who love you and the sun is shining and there’s a movie coming out this weekend that you’ve been dying to see. It hits you all of a sudden that nothing is ever going to be okay, ever, and you kind of dare yourself. You pick up a knife and press it gently to your skin, you look out a nineteenth-story window and you think, I could just do it. I could just do it. And most of the time, you look at the height and you get scared, or you think about the poor people on the sidewalk below — what if there are kids coming home from school and they have to spend the rest of their lives trying to forget this terrible thing you’re going to make them see? And the moment’s over. You think about how sad it would’ve been if you never got to see that movie, and you look at your dog and wonder who would’ve taken care of her if you had gone. And you go back to normal. But you keep it there in your mind. Even if you never take yourself up on it, it gives you a kind of comfort to know that the day is yours to choose.