“Whatever you want, you’ll have it. Go get it and pay for it.”
Elizabeth Everett, daughter of Hugh Everett the father of the quantum theory of multiple worlds. Committed suicide with a pill overdoes. Inside the note left behind it read:
Funeral requests: I prefer no church stuff. Please burn me and DON’T FILE ME. Please sprinkle me in some nice body of water. or the garbage, maybe that way I’ll end up in the correct parallel universe to meet up w/ Daddy
A guy is standing in the middle of a bridge and on the edge of the void. He carries in his hands a large rock that is tied to his neck by a rope and is about to jump.
He does it because fortune simply turned its back on him: his wife left with his best friend, his daughter got into drugs, the bank seized him and took away his house and car, the maid stole his jewels. All at once, there is no other way out for him. So …
Just at that moment and without knowing how a dark silhouette appears, barely distinguishing a cape, a top hat, and his enigmatic and deep voice stops him:
- Hey! What are you going to do? Stop!
- I’m going to jump into the river, my life has no meaning. Do not stop me.
- Wait a minute, tell me your problems, maybe I can help you. The strange figure with an enigmatic voice tells him.
- Help? And how are you going to be able to help me, don’t you see that… And the man begins to tell it all his misfortunes.
After listening to him in a reflective silence, the dark character tells him:
- Get down from there I can solve all your problems. I am the Devil and there is nothing that I cannot do, we would only have to reach a small agreement.
- Do you want my soul? Asks the suicidal.
- No man that was before, now I settle for bodies. You just have to let me fuck you in the ass and voila, all your problems disappear.
- You’re crazy, never, ever! I’m sorry but I’d rather die.
- Are you sure you prefer to die? Keep in mind you will have all the women you want, money to spare, houses and cars as many as you want, in addition to servants willing to please you in your slightest whims, think about it, do not be impulsive.
The man thinks about it and consents, after all with that all his problems were solved. He then accedes to the desire of the dark character and surrenders to him.
When he already feels that the thing is reaching its climax, the stranger in black asks the man between gasps:
- Uff, man, and how old are you?
- 45 The suicidal responds
- Ha! 45 years and you still believe in devils? asshole.
All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The feast is over and the lamps expire.
11 June 1936. Robert Ervin Howard, the creator of Conan the barbarian and regarded as the father of the sword and sorcery subgenre, learned his mother, who had been ill with tuberculosis her entire life, had entered a coma from which she was not expected to wake, he walked out to his car and shot himself in the head. The note was typed and found in Howard’s wallet. The lines were probably taken from the poem The House of Cæsar by Viola Garvin
- What do you want?
- What everyone wants: to live life, wake up excited, be happy. “
by Andy Riley
Dear World, I am leaving because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.
George Sanders decided to die on April 25, 1972 in a hotel in Barcelona. Don George found his way to nowhere thanks to the guidance of an overdose of Nembutal. He was incredibly and inexcusably misogynistic.
just my look
I tell you that nothing has died
That I played the cards,
And everything eats away
Even the bestial loneliness
The unfindable dead love,
That is not worth it
A warm wine. Red
The door has closed.
From now references
The blows my brother, the rough blows
In the red chronicle documenting
The blows my brother, the rough blows.
- Rodrigo Lira
A warning I’m not a psycho they call me “insane” but those who call me “insane” are also called “insane” just like people say “buddy” —sometimes people call me “buddy” and a real buddy of mine calls me “stranger.” But, I warn You and Your Lordship that, truly, I am not CRAZY despite labels vulgarly referred to as diagnostics that distinguished specialists have applied to my case moistening the glue of labels with plastic sponges their hands gloved in latex
—talcum powder while fitting on latex gloves
—denatured alcohol on plastic sponges
—the immaculate white of priest-like aprons
—liquid or conductor jelly on my temples or skull
(whether EEG or EST good-for-nothing—) that I’m not even that much more neurotic than the average of my contemporaries that I have a good prognosis that I haven’t been lobotomized yet they haven’t given me a lobotomy that my computer still works, and enough to write this without misspellings, without spelling mistakes or punctuation errors, (this part ends with a coma,) (,),
I do confess though
that sometimes I have to clench my brain with both hands that sometimes Great Thoughts and Solutions begin to boil accumulating pressurized steam in my head swaying me into a bubble bath —hydrotherapy, they call it— or something along those lines and other times the world loses color it becomes something like street pavement someone paves my world and everything is a path or a highway or a road but never a destination and I’ll die waiting to arrive somewhere two steps back for every step forward seeing it all gray gray not feeling joy or happiness and the sun causes well-known visual distortions on hot pavement and even when the sun sets sometimes the pavement heats up this doesn’t necessarily mean it’s hot outside the world is like gravel covered in cement in drying cement and the cold can become dreadful.
Rodrigo Lira committed suicide on Saturday December 26, 1981, at the same time of his birth, in the place where he had lived the last years: Grecia 907, department 22. His poetry, distributed in photocopies, spread in recitals and printed in fleeting magazines, it was later anthologized in the COMPLETE WORKS PROJECT, a book that cannot be found today.”
“The laws prohibiting suicide and providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been repealed. The Government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man to end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the community will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. Since the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United States has not increased. Now the Government has determined to establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, town and village in the country, it remains to be seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief thus provided.” He paused, and turned to the white Lethal Chamber. The silence in the street was absolute. “There a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If death is welcome let him seek it there.” Then quickly turning to the military aid of the President’s household, he said, “I declare the Lethal Chamber open,” and again facing the vast crowd he cried in a clear voice: “Citizens of New York and of the United States of America, through me the Government declares the Lethal Chamber to be open.”
The Repairer Of Reputations By Robert W. Chambers
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. – Alber Camus
“If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself, but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature, I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will.”― Antonin Artaud
By now it’s over. If you are reading this my
mission is complete. I have finished
revolutionizing the neoeuphoric infliction
of my internal terror. Your children who
have ridaculed me, who have chosen not to
accept me, who have treated me like I am not
worth their time are dead. THEY ARE FUCKING
DEAD. Surely you will try to blame it on the
clothes I wear, the music I listen to, or
the way I choose to present myself- but no.
Do not hide behind my choices. You need to
face the fact that this comes as a result of
YOUR CHOICES. Parents and Teachers, YOU
FUCKED UP. You have taught these kids to be
gears and sheep. To think and act like those
who came before them, to not accept what is
different. YOU ARE IN THE WRONG. I may have
taken their lives and my own- but it was
your doing. Teachers, Parents, LET THIS
MASSACARE BE ON YOUR SHOULDERS UNTIL THE DAY
YOU DIE. Am I insane? Maybe. Is it my fault?
No. I did not choose this life, but I have
indeed chosen to exit it. You may think the
horror ends with the bullet in my head- but
you wouldn’t be so lucky. All that I can
leave you with to decipher what more
extensive death is to come is “12Skizto”.
You have until April 26th. Goodbye.
–Fake suicide note of Eric Harris, April 19th
If you must commit suicide… always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of.
Death, to kill me, will need me as an accomplice
– Marguerite Yourcenar
It is not a question of dying earlier or later, but of dying well or ill. And dying well means escape from the danger of living ill.Seneca
Dorothy was known for her incredible beauty and charm. In 1927, she married a painter by the name of Gardiner Hale. She only starred in two films in her entire life, but because of her husband, was friends with many in high society. On October 21st, 1938, Dorothy killed herself by jumping out of a sixteen story building. Later on, the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo made a famous painting of Dorothy known as “The Suicide of Dorothy Hale.”
Why? … If you were thinking of lodged a bullet in your head, wouldn’t you want a good look at it before loading the gun?
to good look at what?
As it has to walk through my skull, I want to know it well beforehand.”
– Karamazov Brothers
Hi time magazine, hi Pulitzer Prize
tribal scars in technicolor
“Bang Bang Club” AK 47 hour
Hi time magazine, hi Pulitzer Prize
vulture stalked white piped lie forever
wasted your life in black and white
The elephant is so ugly
he sleeps his head machetes his bed
kevin Carter kaffir* lover forever
Click click click click click… himself under
The Layman’s Guide to Suicide is the last self-help book you’ll ever need!
“To the officer who shot me.
This was a plan. I’m sorry to have involved you. I only needed it to die. Please remember that I did plan all this, you had no way of knowing.
– Moshe Pergament. “
In 1997, a 19 year old used a fake gun to lure police into getting shot. Becouse cops shooting people is so certain you can count on them to assist on your suicide.
Woe, woe, woe… in a little while we shall all be dead. Therefore let us behave as though we were dead already.
“There’s no reason to live, but there’s no reason to die, either. The only way we can still show our contempt for life is to accept it. Life is not worth the bother of leaving it. Out of charity, one might spare a few individuals the trouble of living, but what about oneself? Despair, indifference, betrayal, fidelity, solitude, the family, freedom, weight, money, poverty, love, absence of love, syphilis, health, sleep, insomnia, desire, impotence, platitudes, art, honesty, dishonor, mediocrity, intelligence – nothing there to make a fuss about. We know only too well what those things are made of, no point in watching for them.”
“God is growing bitter, He envies man his mortality.”
— Jacques Rigaut
They sun rushed up the sky; the taxi flew;
There was a kind of fever on the clock
That morning. We arrived at Waterloo
With time to spare and couldn’t find my track.
The bitter coffee in a small cafe
Gave us our conversation. When the train
Began to move, I saw you turn away
And vanish, and the vessels in my brain
Burst, the train roared, the other travellers
In flames leapt, burning on the tilted air
Che si cruccia, I heard the devils curse
And shriek with joy in the place beyond prayer.
On January 7, 1972, John Berryman, poet, fell into the void of death when he launched himself from a bridge over in Minneapolis. With such a death Berryman was perhaps no more than continuing a family tradition started by his father who also voluntarily agreed to death.
Through early morning fog I see
visions of the things to be
the pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see…
That suicide is painless
it brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please.I try to find a way to make
all our little joys relate
without that ever-present hate
but now I know that it’s to late, and…
The game of life is hard to play
I’m going to lose it anyway
the losing card I’ll someday lay
so this is all I have to say
The only way to win is cheat
and lay it down before I’m beat
and to another give my seat
for that’s the only painless feat
The sword of time will pierce our skins
it doesn’t hurt when it begins
but as it works its way on in
the pain grows stronger…watch it grin but…
A brave man once requested me
to answer questions that are key
is it to be or not to be
and I replied ‘oh why ask me?”
Cause suicide is painless
it brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please…
and you can do the same thing if you please.
Lyrics by Nick Drake.
They do not inspire me with disgust, but with an immense pity. Among all the mysteries of human life there is one which I have penetrated; our great torment in this existence comes from the fact that we are eternally alone — all our efforts and all our actions are directed toward escaping this solitude.
On January 2, 1892, de Maupassant attempted suicide by cutting his throat. He was committed to the celebrated private asylum of Dr. Esprit Blanche at Passy, in Paris, where he died on July 6, 1893, at the age of 43.
Sadly one Sunday
I waited and waited
With flowers in my arms
All the dream has created
I waited ’til dreams,
Like my heart, were all broken
The flowers were all dead
And the words were unspoken
The grief that I know
Was beyond all consoling
The beat of my heart
Was a bell that was tollingSaddest of SundaysThen came a Sunday
When you came to find me
They bore me to church
And I left you behind me
My eyes could not see
What I wanted to love me
The earth and the flowers
Are forever above me
The bell tolled for me
And the wind whispered, “Never!”
But you I have loved
And I’ll bless you forever
Last of all Sundays
A list of reasons
Altruistic/heroic suicide. Voluntary death for the good of a group (e.g. Japanese Kamikaze pilots or hunger strikes).
Philosophical Suicide. Various philosophical schools, such as stoics or existentialists have advocated suicide under some circumstances.
Religious Suicide. Usually in the form of martyrdom. Found in the early stages of Christianity and during the Reformation and the Inquisition. More recently seen in mass suicides among members of the Solar Temple in Switzerland.
Escape from unbearable sitations. Persecution, terminal illness, chronic misery. There were huge numbers of suicide during the time of pestilence or oppression (e.g. Jews in Medieval Europe with the choice of conforming to Christianity or death, Jews during the Nazi-tyranny or blacks and Native Americans in the NEw World. More recently AIDS has caused similar reactions.
Excess Alcohol and Drug use.Romantic suicide. See Romeo and Juliet but more frequent among people who have lived together for a long time when one of them dies or is terminally ill (which may lead to suicide pacts).
Anniversary Suicide. See above.
Contagion Suicide. When one suicide sparks one or a serious of other suicides. E.g. after the powerful scenes of Russian roulette as shown in the Michael Cimino film “The Deer Hunter”, the number of gunshot suicides rose significantly.
An attempt to manipulate others. “If you don’t do this, I will kill myself.”
Seek help or send a distress signal (that fails and leads to unintentional death).
Punishment. “You’ll be sorry when I’m dead and all the guilt will be on your head”.
Cultural Approval. Ritual suicide (Japanese harakiri or seppuku) mostly associated to matters of honor.
Lack of outside source to blame for one’s misery.Other. Most suicides have multiple causes.
I will come one evening, rounding the bend that takes me;
I will come to find you alone with your old dream.
Dusk will drag its light clouds heavily
Passing by your lonely window
You will welcome me in your silent room and there will be
books all around, abandoned in deep silence.
We will sit next to each other. We will talk about the things that go away
of those who have died before we lose them,
from the bitterness of meaningless life, of boredom,
of not expecting anything to be done,
of disappearing … And little by little in the dark stillness,
our words and our last thoughts will also be quenched.
But the night will come and stop at the window sill;
will mix breezes and aromas with starlight,
with the great call that Nature exhales,
and with your chest which silence will not protect.
April 30, 1930
Maria Polydouri, quit life with a lethal injection of morphine.
I’m breeding like a pig
Skinning myself over and over again
I produce ceaselessly
Jerking off sperm
My cells are dieing every second
And they keep reproducing themselves
I can hear them grow
There is constant construction work going on.
But nothing ever happens.
It’s leading nowhere
by John Smith. shot himself in the head with a shot gun on Jan.4th 2000. http://suez-cide.tripod.com/index.html
“For the mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for. Without a concrete idea of what he is living for, man would refuse to live, would rather exterminate himself than remain on earth, even though everywhere around him was bread.”
–from “The Grand Inquisitor” in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (1879–1880)
There is no pain at this moment
only the tormented silence of this vast space,
of this misunderstood loneliness.
There will be no more sunrises in our lives …
Just like the chimeras that we desire,
and like the afflictions we hate
were born from what’s dead of our souls.
Dead are our hearts,
incinerated by the flames they once loved!
The earth will kiss our bodies
welcoming our last breaths …
Only in this moment that we hold on
can we recognize our past.
A feeling floats in the morning haze …
For an instant its shape is recognizable …
And between the coldness of our bodies without passion,
fades and dies.
For the agony of not being animals
our hand can take the initiative
and trace a strip of suns
where fear is greater than our hopelessness.
A gag on the soul
a knot in the throat and …
Only the clouds that contemplate us
can know the dark of our history.
The breeze carries our laments
more in the depths of our emptiness
something urges us not to give up yet.
Today the black storm clouds
will not be a promise of life,
and lost childhoods will not be restored.
On the precipice of our abandonment
nor the thick forest of yesteryear
nor the cold current of the years
may prevent our last blind step …
Our body shudders against something infinite,
something that does not listen to explanations.
I can see the waves hitting the rocks!
I take a step back … I stagger.
The pounding of the waves is so vigorous …
A strange calm invades me …
Where fear and anguish abounded
now the white foam highlights everything;
where hatred and insecurity lived,
now the breeze softens everything …
Only the rays of the Sun, which give us life
can know the beauty of our death.
For Miguel Ángel Villegas,
with love, from his father.
Friday 3 am
Friday 3 am
A blue Saturday fever and a Sunday without sadness.
You avoid your heart and blow up your head,
And in your voice, just a pale goodbye
And the watch in your wrist stroke the three.
The dream of a sun and a sea and a dangerous life
Changing the bitter for honey and the grey city for roses
It does you good, as it does you wrong
It makes you hate, as it makes you love and more.
You changed of time and love, music and ideas
You changed of sex and God, color and frontiers
But in essence, you won’t change anything elseA
nd a sensual neglect will come at the end.
And you take the tube to your head pressing the teeth
And you close your eyes and you see all the sea in spring
Bang, bang, bang, dead leaves that fall,
Always the same, those who can’t go on will leave.
I have the feeling that what I have yet to live is very little.
This head of mine looks like a crucible
Purifies and consumes.
But without a complaint, without a trace of horror,
To finish me, I want on an afternoon without clouds,
Under the limpid sun
A white viper, born from under a great jasmine,
To sweetly, sweetly, sting my heart.
Around one o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, October 25, 1938, at 46, Alfonsina Storni left the hotel room where she was staying in Mar del Plata and went to the sea …
The next morning two workers found, on the beach, the lifeless body of the poet who had foreseen that she would live little.
The only thing more inevitable than death is life, says a popular saying; nothing is more inevitable than life; it is impossible not to live; It is the only thing that exists. It is so impossible to stop living, that it overwhelms, there is no respite or pause. Life continually tells you; I am everything there is, everything that exists, there is nothing outside of me, everything exists for me, if I don’t exist nothing exists. “
Now vindicated scientist, Paul Kammerer, wrote in his suicide note, he dedicated his body to be dissected at the medical university, hoping his colleagues may find “traces in my brain of what they were unable to find in the living expressions of my intellectual activities”.
On top of the safe lay a white envelope and a large black revolver. Zagreus had answered Mersault’s involuntarily curious stare with a smile. It was very simple. On days when the tragedy which had robbed him of his life was too much for him, he took out his letter, which he had not dated and which explained his desire to die. Then he laid the gun on the table, bent down to it and pressed his forehead against it, rolling his temples over it, calming the fever of his cheeks against the cold steel. For a long time he stayed like that, letting his fingers caress the trigger, lifting the safety-catch, until the world fell silent around him and his whole being, already half-asleep, united with the sensation of the cold, salty metal from which death could emerge. Realizing then that it would be enough for him to date his letter and pull the trigger, discovering the absurd feasibility of death, his imagination was vivid enough to show him the full horror of what life’s negation meant for him, and he drowned in his somnolence all his craving to live, to go on burning in dignity and silence. Then, waking completely, his mouth full of already bitter saliva, he would lick the gun barrel, sticking his tongue into it and sucking out an impossible happiness.
Albert Camus – A Happy Death
Never, oh! Never, nothing will
die; the stream flows,
the wind blows, the cloud fleets, the
From David Lynch’s Elephant Man
Part of the pathetic Misogynist Mass Murdered Marc Lepine’s suicide later.
Forgive the mistakes, I had 15 minutes to write this. See also Annex.
Would you note that if I commit suicide today 89-12-06 it is not for economic reasons (for I have waited until I exhausted all my financial means, even refusing jobs) but for political reasons. Because I have decided to send the feminists, who have always ruined my life, to their Maker. For seven years life has brought me no joy and being totally blasé, I have decided to put an end to those viragos.
I tried in my youth to enter the Forces as an officer cadet, which would have allowed me pos- sibly to get into the arsenal and precede Lortie1 in a raid. They refused me because antisocial. I therefore had to wait until this day to execute my plans. In between, I continued my studies in a haphazard way for they never really interested me, knowing in advance my fate. Which did not prevent me from obtaining very good marks despite my theory of not handing in work and the lack of studying before exams.
Even if the Mad Killer epithet will be attributed to me by the media, I consider myself a rational erudite that only the arrival of the Grim Reaper has forced to take extreme acts. For why persevere to exist if it is only to please the government. Being rather backward-looking by nature (except for science), the feminists have always enraged me. […]
Sorry for this too brief letter.
Annex [list of 19 names and telephone numbers of women Lepine identified as feminists]
Nearly died today. The lack of time (because I started too late) has allowed these radical feminists to survive.
Alea Jacta Est
I woke up this morning wanting to stay asleep,
the few hours in which I manage to fall asleep
They are no longer enough to end the day.
Sleepless nights analyzing my routine
they are perpetual instants for a long time.
Eternal are the minutes when I remember
the beating that life has given me.
I feel my body tired, my mind overwhelmed,
crying has fired me for months
when crossing the portal of dreams.
Every time it dawns
I feel the regret of another identical day,
I feel the annoying voices
of those who ask without paying attention to my answer.
I see the automatic smiles
of those who greet without knowing.
I think and think … I can’t stop searching
among the crowds a face
that at least makes me forget.
A cold bed, dirty dishes,
a room that seems washed out by a typhoon
they remind me that I survive alone there,
That is the cave in which I must hide
of the pack that hopes to devour my bones
when by an oversight he lets me see.
There is no heat in my words
nor less in those of that news conductor
that informs me with a worried face (fictitious by the way),
the rise of depressive states in women who like me hear him.
Now I know that I am a number, one more digit
in that superficial percentage.
Now I know that we are a number sooner or later
of a comma that is advertised red on the television.
“That he jumped into the waters of Mapocho”,
“That they found her hanging from a bridge”,
news that is the reflection of vague ideas
that ever turned in my mind,
and that others … others specified.
Later the ideas continue to hint at me,
more than clear I see a scene
Of what could be my sad end
Tears gushed out like torrents
seeing that someone already thought about my fatal moment.
What else do I have then? …
An empty house that I don’t want to get to?
A lonely plate on my table that no one wants to share?
Some hugs without owners scattered around?
I fall apart as I understand my situation
And I start looking for something to hold on to
Something to fade this pain
I think the hours of lucidity are over
and I give free rein to the critic inside me.
There is nothing that encourages me to wake up
I see that loneliness entered my days
and he doesn’t want to let me go.
I’m falling off a cliff that I won’t be able to get out of,
the night comes again signaling my hours of wakefulness.
And I go back to hell to finish my sentence,
I return to burn the rest of my soul in its flames.
I feel his eternal fire consuming my insides
and I surrender unopposed to the assigned penalty.
I will not fly anymore … Lucifer burned my wings,
I will no longer caress … he himself cut my hands,
I’ll never be able to kiss because he already patched my mouth
and I’ll never love again because he ripped me off
Mercilessly the heart from his chest.
I’m empty and I don’t stop burning
I am dry wood in the cauldron of this hell.
Dry … dry … empty … collapsed,
I am a castle in ruins, trampled … beaten down.
And I’m not even going to die anymore …
not even that sweet pleasure will I be able to enjoy from my confinement.
So many times I was able to escape and I didn’t,
so many times I was able to fly and I did not take the wind that pushed me.
Today is late … I am burning alive at the stake
feeling the stench of my dead body,
of advanced decomposition,
of my soul boiling inside.
Alone … with so many stones around me,
inert, inanimate, soulless matter.
And I’m going to be stone too …
I’ll be a stone after burning in hell
when I no longer have a soul,
when the few reasons that dance in my conscience escape from me.
Eternal, static, routine stone,
long-lived rock ignored by the green,
thrown off the cliff to collide with others.
Empty … empty … I’m falling into the void.
And I wonder when my torment will end.
I don’t want to be eternal … I don’t want to …
eternally alone … empty … eternally dry.
The end is no longer in my hands …
the fire will burn me daily.
I won’t be able to fly anymore … I don’t have my wings,
I will no longer be able to fly … my wings have already been burned.
I have returned to my hell,
the sweet peace was but a second.
Today I burn in its tireless flames,
I melt in its fiery embers.
Pain has returned to my life
the devil has marked me forever,
I have a designated destination
to the bottom I will go to fall like other times.
A curse came my way
and not even God can free me from his confinement.
Joy is a submerged island
and this pity a lurking storm.
I no longer have a shield to hide
no weapons to defend my castle.
Betrayal is the fire that burns me
and tears of eternal acid flow to me.
I’m falling off the cliff
and I see that when I crash I will lose my dream.
They pushed me and they stuck knives
that when I fell I felt to the bone.
Abyss … hell … everything has the same name
when you have to get to the bottom.
Betrayal … pain … everything is the same dagger
that ends the life of my body.
I already lost my soul …
… is burning in hell,
and I will no longer have a body
when the worms at dawn wake up in my bones …
I’m losing control …
I can no longer handle the strings of my life.
Loneliness has cut the brakes on my reason
I’m going to crash against the wall of your indifference.
An accident threw me to life
and a (planned) accident takes me away from it.
Accidentally today I decided the end of my path,
as if by magic a concrete idea appeared.
I lock myself up so as not to be interrupted
and I count the seconds to reach my dusk.
He gave me three hours to say goodbye.
Nine o’clock is a wise time to start.
An hour grooming my future remains,
another to write this letter
and the third to consummate my thoughts.
At twelve … at twenty-four …
twenty-four steps to cross the last threshold,
twelve sighs before finishing it all.
I am sailing in a small red sea
trapped by small tiles in a cold bathroom.
The show is going to end,
the curtain falls on this sad misery.
Last look around me …
nothing new … all old … all rotten.
I undress my body and prepare to swim,
It is the penultimate luxury that I give myself …
a warm tub welcomes me and shelters me in its waters.
Songs for a sad ending
flowers for this body that is left behind.
I quickly review my life
and as much as I search among the memories
there is not one that anchors me to it.
I see old letters in the chest,
vintage photos of hypocritical smiles
that one by one they sink next to me in the farewell.
A letter from him, a letter from her …
What do I know! … so many faces come to mind
that I get confused and I don’t know who wrote them.
So many names, so many lies
so many eternal loves and friendships,
so many good wishes, prosperity for a new year.
But none are here
no one imagines this fatal outcome,
everyone in his world …
away from mine …
My cat left so as not to starve,
my life is leaving so as not to starve,
hunger for company, hunger for love, for affection.
Everything I ever dreamed of ever,
and when I say never really is never
has come true.
Why then stay on this side?
I do not know what about the other but it is better to find out.
Nothing could be worse …
I couldn’t be worse …
I feel no pain
I am anesthetized with anxiety.
I don’t feel the slide of this metal petal.
The tickle of the colorful stream that escapes through my veins
warns me that the end has begun.
I see how he flees from me every millimeter of life.
I surrender to the current closing my eyes …
Now I just have to wait.
I promptly give rise to this eternal dream.
I’m going to sleep … I’m going to rest …
THERE IS NO RETURN FOR THIS FATAL JOURNEY.
The key was found. The aim of the attack was plain. By an implacable repetition of moves it was leading once more to that same passion which would destroy the dream of life. Devastation, horror, madness.
- Nobakov’s The Luzhin Defense
He had always been driven by his true and steadfast purposes. For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission. And yet everything remained to be done and nothing had been completed.
– from The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson by Carson McCullers
I think vomiting when thinking about your own existence is a bad habit.
(20 days late)
Devoided of any inspiration or creativity, I’m still trying to find some kind of stability that will take me to new waves and forms of compatibility with the world. Needless to say… no new deviation.
… I feel deep hatred towards those who I once loved.
Is it Christmas approaching that makes the sublime smell of deep dark Tartarus so irresistible?
me, the winter lover, lives now in contradiction; for as my most natural and defining event of the year nears closer (the winter solstice) I find more and more hatred towards me and those around me.
My nature contradicts the artificial environment I’ve been placed. Either that or I am really helium’s strayed disciple…
Has the sun and summer really been my home all along?
Can’t help but admit that I have always wondered about the light in long blonde hair and the look and taste of wet bare skin.
If summer is my real nature, I can’t help but say that my true nature in fact makes out of me feel most alien within my surroundings; for I have not felt more inadequate than under the light and heat of our systems central star.
For now I can only say that as days grow shorter, my despise of those around gets bigger… and I yearn for loneliness, snow, and northern lights almost unbearable.
I hope hell is cold, for is where I most desire to go… since in the warmth of heaven I would just feel like a smashed cockroach on the wall… disgusting, out of place, hated… and still moving my little antennas, keeping the attention of those who have murdered me, all in awe and puzzled with the mystery of how was it that without any part or limb working, I managed to keep on holding to my fragile sense… smell..
I smell the sublime dead heavy fog from Tartarus calling on to me… yet I see no entrance, or way to say good bye to those once loved and are now hated…
I repeat myself.
(40 days late)
“My heart is finally content… but my art will suffer”
I need to feel less… how do I feel less? I was watching these documentaries on emotions… people who act on their emotions are even more addicted to the… People, who express their rage openly, are more addicted to it…
I do not express my rage… I bottle it up inside, till I want to die… and then… I cut myself…
I don’t know how to scream… or yell… I have never yelled at anyone…
I talked to Emma today… well we just said hi… and he reminded me of something… a year ago… I did not masturbate…
Cumming with only wedgies and water is really hard… like really hard in some cases it can take… hours…
(20 days late)
Top 10 reasons why suicide is better than sex:
- You can still commit suicide when you’re drunk off your ass.
- You don’t have to worry about ‘safe suicide.’
- Nobody wakes you up to ask for more.
- No limit to the number of techniques.
- Nobody ever asks for a long-term suicide commitment.
- Who cares if you get a disease?
- Doing it by yourself is just as good!
- Easier than finding a date on a Saturday night.
- Nobody ever complains about ‘bad suicide.’
And the top reason…
- YOU don’t have to clean up the mess!
by Tina Mancuso over at http://monster-island.org/tinashumor/index.html
Yunalesca – A public love letter
Sometimes, I have this feeling… you all know how hard is for me to know exactly what I’m feeling. I get this feeling for someone, that I can’t precisely put a name on it. It’s a sense… of vastness… the same sense of vastness that is produced by suddenly lying down on the floor and looking up to the immense celestial vault. It’s all so big; it’s all so magnificent… so out of grasp.
A careful study of scientist through history will result in many of them, if not all of them, reaching to out god when they found themselves at the very edge of their knowledge… they all at some point called upon god, because their understanding of the world was limited… there must be some divine, greater than life, force behind it.
Now, of course it’s easy, if not common, to get this feeling when looking at the stars, the movement of the planets, the tide and waves of the ocean. All of these things… of course produce this overwhelming, tear filling emotion.
However, I dare now say I have found it somewhere else…. and odd place.
Sometime around winter 2007 I went online to a certain forum and search for Yunalesca there. 88 messages he had posted since 2003, a fact that I had quickly forgotten. Almost a year later, I had fallen in love with this very Yunalesca. I fell, in love with the sweet prince. And in certain occasions I had felt this vertiginous feeling I’m talking about inside me when thinking too much about him, or talking to him… yet I think I never dared faced my fear and looked straight at it. I had always took a deep breath and recoiled.
But something happened a week ago. An emotion this big, so vast had been approaching for almost a week.
I know… this sound insane, but I swear I have been having the feeling I’m going to feel something… But that’s how it was… I knew it was coming,
When my heart broke oh so very easily with silence… I wondered if I had gone insane. Then, when later something like picking up the phone felt like being spit on the face… I knew it was probably the very end of emotions that was coming near.
Then after almost 12 hours together and not talking and hating and fighting, a single hug erased it all and fixed it all… then when he jumped excited after seeing the batman toys on burger king and when he joined me to buy superwoman… and listened carefully for a story that did not make much sense. Then… I knew it was something spectacular.
I should have seen it coming… when while I was going for a coke while he waited for the sandwich it seemed like an awful distance to be apart from. Should’ve seen it coming, when he and I agreed we wanted the same thing on the food court XD or when we were looking for an exotic dish… and it turned out to be a panzerotti… (I think I cannot think about that situation and smile with all my heart.)
I probably should have known I was going to miss him 24/7 without rest or sleep… when I saw him getting drenched in the park, or how he laughed at me falling down in the fountain (I really did fall down unintentionally) and how incredibly hot he looked switching pants on the Emo store.
I was sure I was going to explode emotionally soon when I was looking straight into his eyes at night, like I did on the ride back home and when you chuckled every time I lost my wallet. And with the surprised eyes you stared at me because I was oh so drunk… and how comfortable his lap was while he played videogames.
And when you looked down to the floor when I saw you wearing you Ben10 boxers in the shower.
Today I went back to this forum… and looked at the 88 messages he had written there. And it hit me.
He was there before me.
He is there without me…
He is unreachable.
All this messages written long before he came into my life… they are his. Yet I don’t know the person who wrote them. I can’t turn back time and meet him… I can’t figure out what was on his head… did he suffer? Was he joyful? Was he happy? Even oddly enough… why do I feel love and care for the words of this being that I did not know back then and do not know right now as he is now only the one I do know.
I once said… it takes a lifetime. To know someone. But it’s not true… it takes more. Not even in all my lifetime will I ever get to know that Yunalesca that wrote and spoke so few before me. It comforts me that I believe in more than one lifetime to know that there will be another one where I can know him completely.
This is probably the weirdest love letter I’ve ever written. And I say love letter, because of all feelings only love could measure up and proclaim this one I own.
And this is probably a very long dull love letter for everyone indeed, but us. But I don’t think I could bear speak to him right now… I don’t think I could lose the knot in my throat, or get a hold of my tears…
On his presence, all so big… so sacred, so divine
What kind of love letter would this be if I didn’t say what all love letters attempt to convey?
I love you.
(10 days late)