3. polite suicide note
I feel like I’ve come back to live my life again, and even though I am an old soul, it seems like I’m just wasting time. Or maybe now I’m just aware of it. This time I mean. And it’s an even bigger crime that I could waste an opportunity like this to have it all again, or maybe I did an even worse job the first time. I don’t believe in re-incarnation. If I did have a previous life, I was indeed myself, that is I was the same person that I am. I have not changed, but my color darkens. I become more of who I am. I become more opaque, not like all of these transparent young things that I can see right through. I’m glad that I am the person that I am, but it is as if I can see eternity stretching before me, and all of these silly choices mean nothing. Every day the words that I used to see wisdom in, fade into mindless banter. The songs that I used to sing turn into prayers whose words I repeated so many times that they have lost there meaning. I still have my faith. I don’t even question it. often. And it’s not like I cling to it because that’s all I have left, or because it brings greater meaning to my life. I just truly believe. My heart grows empty. I don’t feel love anymore, nor do I anticipate it in the future. There are other fine emotions in our inner palette. Not that I even believe that love is an emotion. It’s a physical and mental condition. The spirituality of it comes and goes. Whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about. My world ends at my eyes. I cannot reach beyond my fingertips. I sometimes feel my soul swell out of my body. I am twenty feet tall. but there is nothing in the universe for me to connect to. I just swim in this void. Maybe that’s why I believe in God. Because I don’t believe in people. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a brain in a bell jar. To hell with all of you.
In the polite world you could never call this a suicide note, even though that’s what it is, but you can’t because it isn’t. It’s like it’s blasphemy like the disrespect of your own life is some sacred institution. We are concerned for those who have been hurt by self murder. Those victims, those families that we leave behind. But you write a suicide note. You bear your soul. You tell the world why you want to kill yourself. I am painfully alone. I have no direction. Hope is gone. But you don’t do it. You look at your paper and it doesn’t make sense anymore. You can’t understand why you feel this way. You move on. You kill the demons and move on.
I want to dream of beautiful things tonight. I want to dream of sexy women, and of a life that loves me. I want to wake up and find my world static for two minutes, so that I can pay my bills and find the sexy women that I dream of. This is me putting my soul on paper so I can see it like my face in a mirror. My face has no meaning to me. I am not this face. My name is useless in front of my God. I am nothing but a soul spending five minutes of liesure time by wasting what will be the eighty-two year life of this mute body. To hell with you all.
I’m going to bed now. Sexy women want me.
April 19, 1998. Urban, Christopher J.
[Note: I am not currently entertaining any thoughts of suicide. I also preemptively apologize to anyone this offends in any way.]