Life is impossibly difficult sometimes.
In fact, much of the time. For the person considering suicide, living is far
more excruciating than the alternative.
Or is it?
Consider, for a moment, the permanent redness that would envelop the
participant after the single gunshot echoes into oblivion, or the last drop
of blood as it drips from a deeply sliced vein. No more smiles or the sounds
of children laughing or music playing or dogs barking or kittens purring.
Never to hear the crackling of a campfire, nor the fragrance of another rose
in bloom, nor the impression of the season's first gently falling
snowflakes. Forever gone are the sunsets, the fresh breezes, mountain
vistas, rusty desert landscapes, and vast oceans of deep blue. Just the perpetual
gloom and frigid eternity of a dank crypt.
Nothing else.
No more, no less.
In the first moments following the self-inflicted cessation of life,
perhaps we are afforded a view of our own crime scene. Most important
would be the alarming sight of blood splattered or pooled and the
horror-filled expressions of the unfortunate loved ones first to stumble upon what once had been a human life. Would we witness
the tears as they stream down sobbing faces and mix with our own spilled
blood? Would we hear the sniffling and wailing as the eulogy is read? Are we
given the view of the dirt as it is shoveled atop the gravesite and all
sensation is forever vanquished? Do we participate in the writing of our own
epitaph? Will we watch our flesh as it rots off, or our skulls as
they are exposed to the ravenous worms?
Will the demons ever stop their taunting?
No more heartache, no more love, no tender kisses, never another hug.
Wasn't that what you wanted?
Rob Petitt
Dec 28, 2006