I was looking through some old diaries last week, when I found this entry. If you push the subject matter to the side, I think you will find the piece -- poignant.
You hang around like a shadow, following me wherever I go.
You offer me an exit -- a neon light before darkness.
I try to be positive but the happy-train has left the station and seems hell-bound.
It’s not a case of wanting NO MORE LIFE.
It’s a case of wanting NO MORE PAIN.
Life is tolerable yet the gloomy melancholy is not. It nibbles on my soul, leaving bite-marks.
It’s the CEO of my thought-factory and no positive thought ever qualifies for employment.
You exist in so many forms, offering a banquet of suicidal options to the mad and lost.
Each customer selects their ending. Will they choose rat poison or a bullet?
Some people consider you their last human right.
Others despise you. You will always be considered the cowardly choice to them.
But who are you really?
Lucifer or God?
I have felt your tender fingertips caressing my hair, leading me towards you with warm promises of peace.
Like a spectacle, you draw the crowds and one by one they step through the black hole, leaving only tears and questions for the living.
Death itself doesn’t scare me but the journey there does.
How long is the crossover from life to death?
Are you aware as it’s happening?
Or is it a sleepy, dreamy road to nothingness?
There is a multitude of questions but no answers.
One would think someone would write a manual or something.
All I could find on Google was a bunch of websites telling me how I could kill myself...
or why I shouldn't kill myself...
Who are these people that run these websites?
Are they human?
Seems like a kinda weird site to run.
But.. trying to find a ‘Suicide for Idiots’ book on Amazon is just as weird...and I’ve done that.
I've never feared anyone as much as I fear myself.
Will I die by my own hand?
I tell myself that I WON’T. I tell myself I'll live to 85 and die of natural causes.
But will I? Will I be strong enough to save myself from myself?
All those people.
All those idols.
All those children.
All those women and men who strung themselves up in wardrobes and broke their own necks.
Did they ever really think they would do it?
Was it them that did it?
Or their brain chemistry?
Were they in their RIGHT MIND?
No fucking no.
Depression had entered. Depression had reigned. Depression had won.
We are all birthed with a treasure chest of magic inside of us.
For the depressed person, the magic depletes over time.
And all that is left is an empty chest of memories. Memories of fine jewels and gems.
The symbols of better days.
My name is Vanessa de Largie.