I spent most of my life counting stars and to this day, I've only counted a total of one.
The stars are similar to humanity.
We are all spread apart, individual... but in reality, we're still a society... just like the stars.
I've met my match, and I've been defeated.
It was either the bullet or the rope,
and I just chose the plate of live with it.
I regret it more than anything right now.
In all honesty, I've become a bowl of nothing.
Just a sloppy, over-did bowl of fail.
And I can say...
I'm proud of that.
Not a lot of people have listened to what I've had to say. Not a lot of people have taken the warning signs.
They just look, sigh, and turn away.
In that exact order, EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.
WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
WHAT DID I EVER. DO. TO YOU. TO DESERVE THE WHOLE HELL OF A LOT OF BULLSHIT THAT I HAVE TO CARRY EVERY. FUCKING. DAY?
I did nothing, Dad.
I did nothing.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
She is Pain
The room is a mirror of her heart. Dark, empty, scattered. Photographs torn from their frames and shattered pieces of glass scattered like ashes in the wind waiting for a breeze to carry them away to some unseen beauty. Red and blue lights peeking though the gently waving curtains but the rays never reach the mobile above the crib. The blankets are spilling out over the top of the bars as if the crib is a tower where a damsel in distress was trapped and the blankets were made into a rope for escape. This is not the case.
Blood smears her lips like a clown's poor attempt at lipstick, across her cheek and down her neck as if an artist marked her as his own. The tiny hand print on her shoulder could almost be mistaken as a child's accident during finger painting but she knows better. This is why she can't look at it. Can't force herself to face that reality.
The sirens are off outside, but she can hear them resounding in her head like a broken record. Perhaps those screams, those cries, those thundering footsteps will never end. They will simply remain etched in her memory like a movie set on a loop. She will never escape and perhaps even some small part of her does not want to escape it. She deserves this suffering because she was not there to protect her child.
This child's hand prints are all over this house. Chubby fists waving wildly in the air. Her grip on her finger had only gotten stronger by the day. The eyes had been brighter. The child had had potential that its parents had never even dreamed of.
Curling in upon herself, she barely noticed the shards of glass digging into her knees or how behind her two men have entered the room and are trying to hoist her to her feet and ask her questions. How can she answer questions when she cannot find her voice? Forget her voice -- how can she do anything when she doesn't even have the will to live anymore? Her heartbeat has been taken away from her -- torn from her. She shouldn't even be alive.
There is no such thing as feeling pain. She is pain itself.
Blood smears her lips like a clown's poor attempt at lipstick, across her cheek and down her neck as if an artist marked her as his own. The tiny hand print on her shoulder could almost be mistaken as a child's accident during finger painting but she knows better. This is why she can't look at it. Can't force herself to face that reality.
The sirens are off outside, but she can hear them resounding in her head like a broken record. Perhaps those screams, those cries, those thundering footsteps will never end. They will simply remain etched in her memory like a movie set on a loop. She will never escape and perhaps even some small part of her does not want to escape it. She deserves this suffering because she was not there to protect her child.
This child's hand prints are all over this house. Chubby fists waving wildly in the air. Her grip on her finger had only gotten stronger by the day. The eyes had been brighter. The child had had potential that its parents had never even dreamed of.
Curling in upon herself, she barely noticed the shards of glass digging into her knees or how behind her two men have entered the room and are trying to hoist her to her feet and ask her questions. How can she answer questions when she cannot find her voice? Forget her voice -- how can she do anything when she doesn't even have the will to live anymore? Her heartbeat has been taken away from her -- torn from her. She shouldn't even be alive.
There is no such thing as feeling pain. She is pain itself.
We have everything in our hands.
Human beings, like all animals, fear change. We fear instant change even more.
One must wonder WHY, seeing as how change is what makes the world go round, it cannot be stopped, it can only, in some cases, be contained, however briefly.
We change the world with every breath we take, with every thing that we do. It is unavoidable.
Now is where I begin to make a lot of sense, and where because of that, I irritate a lot of people.
"Organized religion", by it's very nature, is resistant to change, all major religions have at their heads people that at best are called "conservatives", or at times "fundamentalists". At their worst, they are known as "fanatics", and there is nothing more dangerous in this world than a religious fanatic, because they are filled with a "righteous fervor" that they feel excuses anything they do, as long as it is "in the name of God".
They fight to keep things as they are, all the while not realizing that everything they do causes the very change they fear.
For 1500 years, the world was held in the sway of Christianity, and the heads of the Christian church feared other "pagan" religions, simply because they didn't understand them, but this did not stop them from absorbing many things from those "pagan" religions. They did this to make Christianity seem like a good idea to the "heathens".
They CHANGED things, things that they feared, so that they wouldn't need to fear them anymore. Or so they thought. They never stopped fearing them. They still haven't. Now Christianity is on the decline, and for a large number of reasons, not the least being that most of the world finds this religion to be, well, wonderful in it's ideals, but totally idiotic in it's dogma and execution.
Now is the age of Islam, and the Christian Church is naturally afraid. Things are changing, things that they cannot control, so they fear them, rather than LEARN about these things and coexist with them.
Muslims however, do not fear Christians, they fear the Christian Church. And why not? This Church has for centuries tried to suppress them, it has hunted them and killed them.
No wonder they are angry. No wonder they aren't inclined to be friendly. The fact is though, Muslims are far more accepting of Christians than Christians are of Muslims. It's a fact. Ask one if you don't believe me.
All of it though comes down to change, the fear of it, the furthering of it.
Religions, races, cultures, nations, ideas, languages, they all fall before the relentless onslaught of change, just as they are all brought into being by change. It is anyone and everyone's right and responsibility to change the world, we have to if we are to survive, and all change begets more change.
Sadly, the idea of "positive change" is different from person to person, from nation to nation, from religion to religion. Some, such as the Nazis, thought, and think, that destroying everything they distrust was and is "positive change". Some, such as the Communists, feel that everything should be controlled and dictated by the State. Some feel that religion itself should be the central facet of all existence.
And they are all WRONG.
Positive change is when all the people BENEFIT from it, not just a select few who feel they are better than everyone else.
Unfortunately, human beings have throughout their history shown an unbelievably stupid trait, and that trait is to allow themselves to be led around by the nose by the "man of the hour", rather than actually thinking for themselves.
War, sickness, death, famine, and untold horrors are the result of such a state of mind, if it spreads far enough.
Many people want to change the world, and in fact we all do, but some of us have dark designs in mind when we think of it. Those designs can and will destroy all of us if left to fester.
Learn to accept change, rather than fear it. Learn to embrace change, rather than shun it. Learn about things that you don't understand, so that you WILL understand them.
I want to change the world, and I am doing it, in as positive way as I can manage. I seek to both teach and learn, I seek to give people something to think ABOUT, rather than just tell them WHAT to think.
I want to CHANGE the way you think, the way the WORLD thinks. I keep my mind open, and I hope to pass that on to those I meet in life, because it's the only way we will survive, closed minds lead only down the road to destruction.
I want to change the world, to rid it of ignorance, bigotry, and hate. My voice is all I have to do this, and I will raise that voice until it is no more.
Break. The. System.
One must wonder WHY, seeing as how change is what makes the world go round, it cannot be stopped, it can only, in some cases, be contained, however briefly.
We change the world with every breath we take, with every thing that we do. It is unavoidable.
Now is where I begin to make a lot of sense, and where because of that, I irritate a lot of people.
"Organized religion", by it's very nature, is resistant to change, all major religions have at their heads people that at best are called "conservatives", or at times "fundamentalists". At their worst, they are known as "fanatics", and there is nothing more dangerous in this world than a religious fanatic, because they are filled with a "righteous fervor" that they feel excuses anything they do, as long as it is "in the name of God".
They fight to keep things as they are, all the while not realizing that everything they do causes the very change they fear.
For 1500 years, the world was held in the sway of Christianity, and the heads of the Christian church feared other "pagan" religions, simply because they didn't understand them, but this did not stop them from absorbing many things from those "pagan" religions. They did this to make Christianity seem like a good idea to the "heathens".
They CHANGED things, things that they feared, so that they wouldn't need to fear them anymore. Or so they thought. They never stopped fearing them. They still haven't. Now Christianity is on the decline, and for a large number of reasons, not the least being that most of the world finds this religion to be, well, wonderful in it's ideals, but totally idiotic in it's dogma and execution.
Now is the age of Islam, and the Christian Church is naturally afraid. Things are changing, things that they cannot control, so they fear them, rather than LEARN about these things and coexist with them.
Muslims however, do not fear Christians, they fear the Christian Church. And why not? This Church has for centuries tried to suppress them, it has hunted them and killed them.
No wonder they are angry. No wonder they aren't inclined to be friendly. The fact is though, Muslims are far more accepting of Christians than Christians are of Muslims. It's a fact. Ask one if you don't believe me.
All of it though comes down to change, the fear of it, the furthering of it.
Religions, races, cultures, nations, ideas, languages, they all fall before the relentless onslaught of change, just as they are all brought into being by change. It is anyone and everyone's right and responsibility to change the world, we have to if we are to survive, and all change begets more change.
Sadly, the idea of "positive change" is different from person to person, from nation to nation, from religion to religion. Some, such as the Nazis, thought, and think, that destroying everything they distrust was and is "positive change". Some, such as the Communists, feel that everything should be controlled and dictated by the State. Some feel that religion itself should be the central facet of all existence.
And they are all WRONG.
Positive change is when all the people BENEFIT from it, not just a select few who feel they are better than everyone else.
Unfortunately, human beings have throughout their history shown an unbelievably stupid trait, and that trait is to allow themselves to be led around by the nose by the "man of the hour", rather than actually thinking for themselves.
War, sickness, death, famine, and untold horrors are the result of such a state of mind, if it spreads far enough.
Many people want to change the world, and in fact we all do, but some of us have dark designs in mind when we think of it. Those designs can and will destroy all of us if left to fester.
Learn to accept change, rather than fear it. Learn to embrace change, rather than shun it. Learn about things that you don't understand, so that you WILL understand them.
I want to change the world, and I am doing it, in as positive way as I can manage. I seek to both teach and learn, I seek to give people something to think ABOUT, rather than just tell them WHAT to think.
I want to CHANGE the way you think, the way the WORLD thinks. I keep my mind open, and I hope to pass that on to those I meet in life, because it's the only way we will survive, closed minds lead only down the road to destruction.
I want to change the world, to rid it of ignorance, bigotry, and hate. My voice is all I have to do this, and I will raise that voice until it is no more.
Break. The. System.
This about this.
Its an odd feeling, sitting down to write a suicide letter and realizing you have nothing to write about. I'm not sure why I should even bother. What good could come of leaving something behind? I suppose the others have left them when they had something to say, or needed to make a statement. I sat down with the thought of explaining myself. Not defending myself, I see nothing wrong with suicide as long as it is a conscious and logical choice. I just want to explain why, so that others can understand. I guess that means I'm worried what others will think of me, though that contradicts my personality.
I feel like I have a lot to say. I have a lot to explain. Reasons why my life will end the way it will, while I'm still young, when I have the chance for a much longer life. But constantly nagging in the back of my brain, one of the great reasons why I have come this far to begin with, is the question "Why bother?". Nobody cares, nobody truely cares. This isn't some emo, feeling sorry for myself, used and abused voice speaking. This is a completely logical and observant voice. Its taken me years to see, but I've learned in my short lifetime that nobody truly cares what others have to say. We are all selfish.
Pay attention to the conversations with your friends. Pay attention to yourself. You will find that very very few of them will really listen. Very few people will look deeper into your words, very few will make any effort to understand why you've said something. Everyone is simply waiting for their turn to speak up.
In my life I've met a very small handful of people, who I would call kindred spirits if I were a faithful man. These are the people you can sit with in silence, yet still communicate. These are the people who register your subtle facial expressions, and know exactly what they mean. These are the people who know something is wrong when everyone else in the world is completely fooled by your charade. These are people who know exactly who they are without me naming names. Without you, all would have been lost long ago. I've rarely felt understood in my life, but when I did, it was with you. To anyone else unfortunate enough to read this, ignore everyone else in your life. Nobody is more important than these people.
My first thoughts of suicide came to me as a child. I was an angry child. Angry at the world and everything around me, and I was too young to understand why. I remember being seven or eight, holding a serrated steak knife to my wrist and threatening my mom, screaming that I would kill myself. I was so angry I could feel heat rising off of my shoulders and every muscle in my face ached. If only I knew then what I know now I might have understood the effect that can have on a young single mother. That, however, was one of a thousand incidents of my youth, and I only mention it now because it was the first time I tried using suicide as a weapon.
I remember playing with friends around that time, talking and dreaming of the future. Talking about what we would be when we would grow up, predicting how long we would live and how we would die. Most children want to die old in their sleep. Thats what their parents have told them about their grandparents. Its a peaceful way to die, more of a passing than a death. I predicted I would die by the age of 25. For some reason that number felt right to me. I didn't see any need to live longer.
As I grew my personality changed but I've always felt different, like an outside. Perhaps everyone feels like this, I don't know. But I know now that I am different. I threatened suicide for the second time in my life in high school, in a stupid attempt to keep a girlfriend who had long since fallen for another. This time it involved a revolver instead of a knife, but the intentions were the same. I was never going to kill myself, I was only trying to get what I wanted. I thought about it, yes, but inside I knew it was too soon. The time would come, but not yet.
And so here we are today, and I'm trying to decide whether or not I should continue with this letter or just get it over with. My hope is that you could learn something from this but I know it is mostly futile. I hate talking like this because it sounds so cliche. I assure you I am at a very clear and logical state of mind. I do not feel sorry for my situation, I welcome it as you would welcome any other major change in your life.
The fact is that I will be dead soon after I'm finished with this letter and I have yet to explain my motives. To put it simply, I do not enjoy life. I have very little motivation to continue with anything. As I've come closer and closer to my predicted year of death I feel as if my batteries are draining and I'm now running on fumes. I feel as if I've played my part. I've made the impacts I need to make, I've influenced the people I was meant to influence, so staying alive any longer is selfish in that I would only be affecting myself. All of my friends and family are at an age where they won't soon forget my passing, so any lessons I have to teach them are strongest now.
I do not want to be remembered, though I know that is a ridiculous request. But as my final selfish request I will say it anyways. I think it is very important for those that care or have cared for me to understand that it was not me that was important. I have always been expendable. I have always been a tool, here only to serve the simple purpose of giving you an edge on the rest of humankind. That edge being experience and understanding of life and death and hopefully the motivation to make something out of the time that would have otherwise been mine. I go willingly because it will ease the pain and silence that nagging in the back of my head that is constantly questioning everything and constantly asking "Why?". I go willingly because I know at least one of you will truly read what I am writing here and will make a change in your life for the better.
See the world for what it is. This is a very simple existence. Try your best to enjoy everything. If you don't like a job, quit. If you don't like your life, pack up and move. Start anew. Do whatever you have to do to live the life you want. Don't settle for less just to get by and find yourself dying slowly in your bed in old age wondering why you never did what you really wanted to do.
Its funny, I always though my last letter to the world would be much more depressing.
I feel like I have a lot to say. I have a lot to explain. Reasons why my life will end the way it will, while I'm still young, when I have the chance for a much longer life. But constantly nagging in the back of my brain, one of the great reasons why I have come this far to begin with, is the question "Why bother?". Nobody cares, nobody truely cares. This isn't some emo, feeling sorry for myself, used and abused voice speaking. This is a completely logical and observant voice. Its taken me years to see, but I've learned in my short lifetime that nobody truly cares what others have to say. We are all selfish.
Pay attention to the conversations with your friends. Pay attention to yourself. You will find that very very few of them will really listen. Very few people will look deeper into your words, very few will make any effort to understand why you've said something. Everyone is simply waiting for their turn to speak up.
In my life I've met a very small handful of people, who I would call kindred spirits if I were a faithful man. These are the people you can sit with in silence, yet still communicate. These are the people who register your subtle facial expressions, and know exactly what they mean. These are the people who know something is wrong when everyone else in the world is completely fooled by your charade. These are people who know exactly who they are without me naming names. Without you, all would have been lost long ago. I've rarely felt understood in my life, but when I did, it was with you. To anyone else unfortunate enough to read this, ignore everyone else in your life. Nobody is more important than these people.
My first thoughts of suicide came to me as a child. I was an angry child. Angry at the world and everything around me, and I was too young to understand why. I remember being seven or eight, holding a serrated steak knife to my wrist and threatening my mom, screaming that I would kill myself. I was so angry I could feel heat rising off of my shoulders and every muscle in my face ached. If only I knew then what I know now I might have understood the effect that can have on a young single mother. That, however, was one of a thousand incidents of my youth, and I only mention it now because it was the first time I tried using suicide as a weapon.
I remember playing with friends around that time, talking and dreaming of the future. Talking about what we would be when we would grow up, predicting how long we would live and how we would die. Most children want to die old in their sleep. Thats what their parents have told them about their grandparents. Its a peaceful way to die, more of a passing than a death. I predicted I would die by the age of 25. For some reason that number felt right to me. I didn't see any need to live longer.
As I grew my personality changed but I've always felt different, like an outside. Perhaps everyone feels like this, I don't know. But I know now that I am different. I threatened suicide for the second time in my life in high school, in a stupid attempt to keep a girlfriend who had long since fallen for another. This time it involved a revolver instead of a knife, but the intentions were the same. I was never going to kill myself, I was only trying to get what I wanted. I thought about it, yes, but inside I knew it was too soon. The time would come, but not yet.
And so here we are today, and I'm trying to decide whether or not I should continue with this letter or just get it over with. My hope is that you could learn something from this but I know it is mostly futile. I hate talking like this because it sounds so cliche. I assure you I am at a very clear and logical state of mind. I do not feel sorry for my situation, I welcome it as you would welcome any other major change in your life.
The fact is that I will be dead soon after I'm finished with this letter and I have yet to explain my motives. To put it simply, I do not enjoy life. I have very little motivation to continue with anything. As I've come closer and closer to my predicted year of death I feel as if my batteries are draining and I'm now running on fumes. I feel as if I've played my part. I've made the impacts I need to make, I've influenced the people I was meant to influence, so staying alive any longer is selfish in that I would only be affecting myself. All of my friends and family are at an age where they won't soon forget my passing, so any lessons I have to teach them are strongest now.
I do not want to be remembered, though I know that is a ridiculous request. But as my final selfish request I will say it anyways. I think it is very important for those that care or have cared for me to understand that it was not me that was important. I have always been expendable. I have always been a tool, here only to serve the simple purpose of giving you an edge on the rest of humankind. That edge being experience and understanding of life and death and hopefully the motivation to make something out of the time that would have otherwise been mine. I go willingly because it will ease the pain and silence that nagging in the back of my head that is constantly questioning everything and constantly asking "Why?". I go willingly because I know at least one of you will truly read what I am writing here and will make a change in your life for the better.
See the world for what it is. This is a very simple existence. Try your best to enjoy everything. If you don't like a job, quit. If you don't like your life, pack up and move. Start anew. Do whatever you have to do to live the life you want. Don't settle for less just to get by and find yourself dying slowly in your bed in old age wondering why you never did what you really wanted to do.
Its funny, I always though my last letter to the world would be much more depressing.
Cigarettes.
I hate the smell of cigarettes, but it works on her, somehow. She just seems to be someone who would smell like them, even if you've never seen her smoke, which is an experience in and of itself.
Her name is Jamie, and she hates just about everything.
She smokes like she has a personal vendetta against the cigarette, like she wants it to burn into nothing as soon as it possibly can, like she wants to not just kill it, but the very idea of it.
She does everything the same way. Well, nearly everything.
She kisses gently, softly, like it's the only thing she can do, ever, and the only thing that even matters.
She tastes like what she smokes, and it's the closest I get to actually smoking anything. She knows I don't, and only offered me one, when we first met.
I do always have a lighter, though. She forgets hers, and sometimes, she just really wants to murder one.
I've tried to smoke with her, but I really just can't do it. But she does, and I think the nicotine sticks, because I am as addicted to her as she is to her coffin nails.
When she died, in a car crash, I went to her funeral. At her grave, I placed a pack of her favorite brand.
I finsished a whole cigarette for the first time in my life.
Her name is Jamie, and she hates just about everything.
She smokes like she has a personal vendetta against the cigarette, like she wants it to burn into nothing as soon as it possibly can, like she wants to not just kill it, but the very idea of it.
She does everything the same way. Well, nearly everything.
She kisses gently, softly, like it's the only thing she can do, ever, and the only thing that even matters.
She tastes like what she smokes, and it's the closest I get to actually smoking anything. She knows I don't, and only offered me one, when we first met.
I do always have a lighter, though. She forgets hers, and sometimes, she just really wants to murder one.
I've tried to smoke with her, but I really just can't do it. But she does, and I think the nicotine sticks, because I am as addicted to her as she is to her coffin nails.
When she died, in a car crash, I went to her funeral. At her grave, I placed a pack of her favorite brand.
I finsished a whole cigarette for the first time in my life.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
You can hear it a mile away.
It takes a push on the bed or a push on the wall to really start something that could last a life time. Or at least, seems like it lasts a life time. But when it's over, you only wish you could have more.
I don’t remember exactly how it started, or where I was for that matter, but all I can say is I was at some sort of party. I was looking for someone, not quite sure who and I believe I was in the kitchen of who ever’s house I was in. Next thing I know I reach out and grab someone. One arm wrapped around this person’s waist, a female, and the opposite hand grabbed her butt. When I grabbed her, I must have been sitting or kneeling, as my head was at waist level of this woman. I then pull her close, embracing her with a hug around her waist and resting the side of my head against her butt. I then kiss her butt through the jean shorts she was wearing.
I then stand up and realize who this woman was. It was you. On top of the jean shorts, you were wearing a bikini top, the kind that just ties behind your neck and your mid back. And of course you had that beautiful, shiny, long hair of yours. At first it seemed like you had a bit of a disgusted, yet surprised, look on your face. I can’t quite remember what it was, but you asked me something or said something, and I may, or may not, have responded to you. But then suddenly I embrace you again, pulling you closer. As I pulled you closer, I started to kiss your exposed left shoulder softly and gently. The look on your face quickly changed from a look of disgust, to a genuine smile. Any disgust you may have felt, is seemingly gone and forgotten. I continue to kiss you softly on your shoulder and I slowly work my way down your back along your left shoulder blade, and kissing your arm a bit as well.
At that point my alarm went off and I woke up. I would have liked to know how it continued, but unfortunately I’m not that fortunate. And if you are actually still reading this, I can tell you how I would have liked it to continue.
If it had continued, I would continue to kiss you down your back, occasionally switching to your arm. Once I got so far, I would take your left hand in my right hand; turn you around, so you were face to face with me. I would look into your eyes, but I wouldn’t say anything. I’d take your hand, pull it towards my face, and I would kiss it in a way that a man would greet a woman. I would then take my left hand and gently pull your head towards me just enough so I can kiss your forehead. Then the tip of your nose. Your left cheek, then your right. Finally your chin before I moved on elsewhere.
I’d start kissing your right shoulder, slowly moving down your right arm. Kissing your upper arm, bending your arm up a bit, kissing your forearm. As I kiss your forearm I slowly work my way around behind you, taking your right hand with my right hand, giving it a soft kiss. At that point your hand is pressing up against your right shoulder, so I begin to kiss your shoulder from behind. I move to the center of your back at the top of your spine. I then kiss your neck and as I do so, I take my hands and gently begin to massage your shoulders. I begin to move down your spine, kissing every couple of inches, long and passionately. My hands slowly move down your arms, gently rubbing and massaging them as they go. At the same time that the kissing gets to the bottom of your spine, just above the waist of your shorts, my hands find their way on to yours. My fingers mesh in between yours. I then start to slowly start to kiss up your spine, again every couple inches, doing my best to hit the spots I missed before. As I do so, I take my hands and yours and begin to wrap them, and our arms, around your torso, pulling your body against mine.
As I reach the top of your spine, with our hands still together, and our arms around your torso, your body feels completely relaxed. As your head leans forward a bit, I again kiss your neck. I kiss the left side of your neck, slowly moving down your neck to your shoulder, you lean your head to the right a bit. As I kiss the edge of your shoulder, I feel your head turn towards me. I kiss your left cheek. I kiss just below your ear, and then kiss your earlobe. I kiss your neck again. Then the right side of your neck, moving down to your shoulder. I then release my hands from yours, slowly kissing down your arm. As I kiss down your arm, I begin to move down and around in front of you.
As my lips reach your hand, my head is adjacent to your stomach. So I then let go of your hand, placing my hands on your waist, pulling myself in and kissing your stomach just above your shorts. I kiss just above your belly button, then just below. Then I kiss to the left of your belly button, and then to the right. I then begin to stand up a little more, my hands gently gliding across your skin, from your waist to your back, kissing the base of your breast bone, just below the center of your bikini top. I kiss just below your right breast, and then just below your left breast. I then kiss you again on your breast bone. As I stand up just a little bit more, I start to glide my finger tips slowly down your spine, and gently kiss the center of your chest, at the top of your cleavage. Fingers still gliding down your back, I kiss the left side of your neck. I then kiss the right side of your neck. As I kiss your chin, I feel my hands reach the top of your shorts. I then take my hands and gently grab your butt in such a way that I lift you off your feet, possibly wrapping your legs around my waist, and I then give you a long passionate kiss on your lips.
I would love to continue, but I’ve gone on long enough. If you’ve read this far, I am truly surprised, and at the same time, intrigued as to what’s going through your head by this point. Whether you’re willing to admit you read this far is another story. But by all means, feel free to respond. Good night, evening, day, morning, whatever.
I don’t remember exactly how it started, or where I was for that matter, but all I can say is I was at some sort of party. I was looking for someone, not quite sure who and I believe I was in the kitchen of who ever’s house I was in. Next thing I know I reach out and grab someone. One arm wrapped around this person’s waist, a female, and the opposite hand grabbed her butt. When I grabbed her, I must have been sitting or kneeling, as my head was at waist level of this woman. I then pull her close, embracing her with a hug around her waist and resting the side of my head against her butt. I then kiss her butt through the jean shorts she was wearing.
I then stand up and realize who this woman was. It was you. On top of the jean shorts, you were wearing a bikini top, the kind that just ties behind your neck and your mid back. And of course you had that beautiful, shiny, long hair of yours. At first it seemed like you had a bit of a disgusted, yet surprised, look on your face. I can’t quite remember what it was, but you asked me something or said something, and I may, or may not, have responded to you. But then suddenly I embrace you again, pulling you closer. As I pulled you closer, I started to kiss your exposed left shoulder softly and gently. The look on your face quickly changed from a look of disgust, to a genuine smile. Any disgust you may have felt, is seemingly gone and forgotten. I continue to kiss you softly on your shoulder and I slowly work my way down your back along your left shoulder blade, and kissing your arm a bit as well.
At that point my alarm went off and I woke up. I would have liked to know how it continued, but unfortunately I’m not that fortunate. And if you are actually still reading this, I can tell you how I would have liked it to continue.
If it had continued, I would continue to kiss you down your back, occasionally switching to your arm. Once I got so far, I would take your left hand in my right hand; turn you around, so you were face to face with me. I would look into your eyes, but I wouldn’t say anything. I’d take your hand, pull it towards my face, and I would kiss it in a way that a man would greet a woman. I would then take my left hand and gently pull your head towards me just enough so I can kiss your forehead. Then the tip of your nose. Your left cheek, then your right. Finally your chin before I moved on elsewhere.
I’d start kissing your right shoulder, slowly moving down your right arm. Kissing your upper arm, bending your arm up a bit, kissing your forearm. As I kiss your forearm I slowly work my way around behind you, taking your right hand with my right hand, giving it a soft kiss. At that point your hand is pressing up against your right shoulder, so I begin to kiss your shoulder from behind. I move to the center of your back at the top of your spine. I then kiss your neck and as I do so, I take my hands and gently begin to massage your shoulders. I begin to move down your spine, kissing every couple of inches, long and passionately. My hands slowly move down your arms, gently rubbing and massaging them as they go. At the same time that the kissing gets to the bottom of your spine, just above the waist of your shorts, my hands find their way on to yours. My fingers mesh in between yours. I then start to slowly start to kiss up your spine, again every couple inches, doing my best to hit the spots I missed before. As I do so, I take my hands and yours and begin to wrap them, and our arms, around your torso, pulling your body against mine.
As I reach the top of your spine, with our hands still together, and our arms around your torso, your body feels completely relaxed. As your head leans forward a bit, I again kiss your neck. I kiss the left side of your neck, slowly moving down your neck to your shoulder, you lean your head to the right a bit. As I kiss the edge of your shoulder, I feel your head turn towards me. I kiss your left cheek. I kiss just below your ear, and then kiss your earlobe. I kiss your neck again. Then the right side of your neck, moving down to your shoulder. I then release my hands from yours, slowly kissing down your arm. As I kiss down your arm, I begin to move down and around in front of you.
As my lips reach your hand, my head is adjacent to your stomach. So I then let go of your hand, placing my hands on your waist, pulling myself in and kissing your stomach just above your shorts. I kiss just above your belly button, then just below. Then I kiss to the left of your belly button, and then to the right. I then begin to stand up a little more, my hands gently gliding across your skin, from your waist to your back, kissing the base of your breast bone, just below the center of your bikini top. I kiss just below your right breast, and then just below your left breast. I then kiss you again on your breast bone. As I stand up just a little bit more, I start to glide my finger tips slowly down your spine, and gently kiss the center of your chest, at the top of your cleavage. Fingers still gliding down your back, I kiss the left side of your neck. I then kiss the right side of your neck. As I kiss your chin, I feel my hands reach the top of your shorts. I then take my hands and gently grab your butt in such a way that I lift you off your feet, possibly wrapping your legs around my waist, and I then give you a long passionate kiss on your lips.
I would love to continue, but I’ve gone on long enough. If you’ve read this far, I am truly surprised, and at the same time, intrigued as to what’s going through your head by this point. Whether you’re willing to admit you read this far is another story. But by all means, feel free to respond. Good night, evening, day, morning, whatever.
This is not a letter.
If you have to put a lot of thought into your suicide letter, then you aren't ready to die. By the time you pick up the blade or that bottle of pills, crank the car or tie the knot in the rope, step into the street or over the edge -- you know exactly what you'd want to say or what you'd wished you'd said. If you have to sit and think about who you love the most and what you want them to know then you're not ready to die.
At least, not a fulfilling death.
Unfinished business is the worst kind. And it makes people suffer more. All the unspoken words are harder to hear from beyond the veil, especially when the words come as whispers creeping across the pillow in our dreams at night. Love isn't as strong or comforting when you have no way to give it to that person.
If anything, the others are selfish for making you stay. They won't understand the rush you experience with ending it all. How it feels to drag that blade across your skin and watch the little red rubies seep out, what it's like to watch the world from beneath the water until your eyes glaze over, the way the wind feels blowing through your hair on the descent. Those moments are when you feel most alive. Denying you of that -- that one moment of adventure -- is cruel.
If you have to sit and ponder whether or not writing a letter is a good idea, then you're not ready to go. It's not like there's a prerequisite to death. Writing the letter, not writing the letter -- you're dead either way. It doesn't change based upon whether or not you made a suicide note, recorded a video and left it in the VCR, or just have someone stumble upon your body at three in the morning. You are dead.
People who say suicide is selfish are not always right. For some the choice is selfish, but for others it isn't. It's a matter of perspective. I promise you that at least half of people who shuffle in front of oncoming traffic or drink down vodka to chase the bottle of sleeping pills had their final thoughts of the ones they love. After all, while you're laying on the bed for hours waiting for the pills to slowly take you away, what're you supposed to do? Play solitaire?
If you have to pause and consider whether or not to write in pencil or ink, you aren't ready to die. Do you think your loved ones care if the tears smudge the ink? I'm sure a lot of them through anger would tear up the letter anyway in a moment of confusion before coming back hours, weeks, years later to tape it back together and hope that comfort can be found there. Solace. Understanding.
Denial.
They've found your body resting on the couch, on the bed, curled up in the fetal position on the floor with scattered photographs of friends around your head like a halo.
"They aren't really dead, they're just sleeping."
They've found your body in the lake where you crashed your car, driving over the bridge at a speed that's ridiculously high.
"They aren't dead yet, just do CPR."
They've found your body slumped on the bathroom floor, hunched in the corner of the closet, sitting in the car with jagged cuts across your wrists.
"They aren't dead, they've not lost enough blood -- call 911."
They will make any and every excuse to believe anything but the truth. And then it takes a major turn.
Anger.
"Why me? Why my pills? Dammit, did they not care about what I would think?"
"God, why did you let them drive over the damn bridge? Why didn't you stop them? Carry the car to the shore and prevent them from drowning?"
"Selfish bastard. Leaving me here alone, forgetting who their friends are, forgetting who got them this far."
Maybe the anger lasts for only a moment. Maybe it lasts for several weeks. Maybe, in some sense, it never truly goes away. But eventually it does fade long enough that they're left wishing they'd said or done things that they'd neglected to do or wishing they hadn't said or done things that they'd done. Maybe they start blaming themselves in illogical ways. If they had taken their medication with them every time they left the house this wouldn't have happened, if they hadn't left them home alone with the car they wouldn't have drove it over the bridge to their death, if they hadn't left the razor out in plain sight in the bathroom they wouldn't have cut themselves to end it all -- what if. You can what if yourself to death.
What if they knew just how much I loved them?
What if I had just called while I was out of the house and had a moment to talk?
What if....
Depression.
What ifs prevent you from living. You spend all your time wondering if you had done something differently then maybe they would still be alive. You don't have the energy to survive -- your mind goes to that same dark place that theirs traveled through not so long ago. You realize exactly what they meant. That all the twisted, demented, unorthodox things make a lot of sense when you're wandering those paths yourself. Life is darker. The things that once held meaning suddenly don't make much sense at all. You get frustrated at the simplest tasks, cry for no reason, become bitter, shelter yourself from the world and soon the friends that were on your side trying to help you save the one you loved are all now trying to help you.
How do you respond? Pushing them away, telling them you're fine when really as soon as you hang up you dissolve into tears, clutch fiercely to a liquor bottle, examine the gun you've kept for years for self-protection but now wonder if it has an ultimately better use.
Maybe in time you get better. You go searching for meaning, a friend pulls you out of the dark abyss, and you get help. Maybe, at long last, rays of light are breaking through the dense canopy of thought and bringing hope. Maybe you learn to accept what happened and that it wasn't your fault. It was their choice.
But real life is not always happily-ever-after. While you can get better, not everyone does.
Maybe you finally do pick up that gun and put it in your mouth, running your tongue over the barrel and marveling at the taste of ash in your mouth from when you fired it once to test the recoil in case a burgler ever did come in. The metal's cold and you just don't care and, in the back of your mind, there's the curiosity if it'll hurt and if you'll live long enough to see if you really did have any brains. Maybe they'll splatter across the wall, over the floor, maybe you'll see all the twisted and ugly thoughts blast away with the single pull of the trigger and before you die things will make sense.
Say you do pull the trigger. You called a friend but they didn't answer. Or they answered and said they were 'too busy to talk.' You went to someone's house to talk to them and they weren't home. Worse yet, they didn't come to the door because they never know what to say when you're upset. Say you do these things and you think it's because they don't love you.
If they don't love you, they never did.
You don't pause for thought. You grab the gun, crying and shaking, fumble on the trigger and then the shot rings out and the pain is brief and the room fades almost at once. Game over.
If you feel like this and don't know where to go or how to word it in your suicide letter, maybe you're not ready to die. Maybe you're looking for that ray of light to shoot through the smallest gap between the branches of doubt, fear, regret, loneliness, hopelessness -- whatever burdens you carry. If you feel like you don't know where you're going, that your footsteps are taking you in circles, why not walk with your arms outstretched and see if a friend takes your hand and pulls you into an embrace?
If you have to think about the letter, perhaps it's because you shouldn't be writing it.
At least, not a fulfilling death.
Unfinished business is the worst kind. And it makes people suffer more. All the unspoken words are harder to hear from beyond the veil, especially when the words come as whispers creeping across the pillow in our dreams at night. Love isn't as strong or comforting when you have no way to give it to that person.
If anything, the others are selfish for making you stay. They won't understand the rush you experience with ending it all. How it feels to drag that blade across your skin and watch the little red rubies seep out, what it's like to watch the world from beneath the water until your eyes glaze over, the way the wind feels blowing through your hair on the descent. Those moments are when you feel most alive. Denying you of that -- that one moment of adventure -- is cruel.
If you have to sit and ponder whether or not writing a letter is a good idea, then you're not ready to go. It's not like there's a prerequisite to death. Writing the letter, not writing the letter -- you're dead either way. It doesn't change based upon whether or not you made a suicide note, recorded a video and left it in the VCR, or just have someone stumble upon your body at three in the morning. You are dead.
People who say suicide is selfish are not always right. For some the choice is selfish, but for others it isn't. It's a matter of perspective. I promise you that at least half of people who shuffle in front of oncoming traffic or drink down vodka to chase the bottle of sleeping pills had their final thoughts of the ones they love. After all, while you're laying on the bed for hours waiting for the pills to slowly take you away, what're you supposed to do? Play solitaire?
If you have to pause and consider whether or not to write in pencil or ink, you aren't ready to die. Do you think your loved ones care if the tears smudge the ink? I'm sure a lot of them through anger would tear up the letter anyway in a moment of confusion before coming back hours, weeks, years later to tape it back together and hope that comfort can be found there. Solace. Understanding.
Denial.
They've found your body resting on the couch, on the bed, curled up in the fetal position on the floor with scattered photographs of friends around your head like a halo.
"They aren't really dead, they're just sleeping."
They've found your body in the lake where you crashed your car, driving over the bridge at a speed that's ridiculously high.
"They aren't dead yet, just do CPR."
They've found your body slumped on the bathroom floor, hunched in the corner of the closet, sitting in the car with jagged cuts across your wrists.
"They aren't dead, they've not lost enough blood -- call 911."
They will make any and every excuse to believe anything but the truth. And then it takes a major turn.
Anger.
"Why me? Why my pills? Dammit, did they not care about what I would think?"
"God, why did you let them drive over the damn bridge? Why didn't you stop them? Carry the car to the shore and prevent them from drowning?"
"Selfish bastard. Leaving me here alone, forgetting who their friends are, forgetting who got them this far."
Maybe the anger lasts for only a moment. Maybe it lasts for several weeks. Maybe, in some sense, it never truly goes away. But eventually it does fade long enough that they're left wishing they'd said or done things that they'd neglected to do or wishing they hadn't said or done things that they'd done. Maybe they start blaming themselves in illogical ways. If they had taken their medication with them every time they left the house this wouldn't have happened, if they hadn't left them home alone with the car they wouldn't have drove it over the bridge to their death, if they hadn't left the razor out in plain sight in the bathroom they wouldn't have cut themselves to end it all -- what if. You can what if yourself to death.
What if they knew just how much I loved them?
What if I had just called while I was out of the house and had a moment to talk?
What if....
Depression.
What ifs prevent you from living. You spend all your time wondering if you had done something differently then maybe they would still be alive. You don't have the energy to survive -- your mind goes to that same dark place that theirs traveled through not so long ago. You realize exactly what they meant. That all the twisted, demented, unorthodox things make a lot of sense when you're wandering those paths yourself. Life is darker. The things that once held meaning suddenly don't make much sense at all. You get frustrated at the simplest tasks, cry for no reason, become bitter, shelter yourself from the world and soon the friends that were on your side trying to help you save the one you loved are all now trying to help you.
How do you respond? Pushing them away, telling them you're fine when really as soon as you hang up you dissolve into tears, clutch fiercely to a liquor bottle, examine the gun you've kept for years for self-protection but now wonder if it has an ultimately better use.
Maybe in time you get better. You go searching for meaning, a friend pulls you out of the dark abyss, and you get help. Maybe, at long last, rays of light are breaking through the dense canopy of thought and bringing hope. Maybe you learn to accept what happened and that it wasn't your fault. It was their choice.
But real life is not always happily-ever-after. While you can get better, not everyone does.
Maybe you finally do pick up that gun and put it in your mouth, running your tongue over the barrel and marveling at the taste of ash in your mouth from when you fired it once to test the recoil in case a burgler ever did come in. The metal's cold and you just don't care and, in the back of your mind, there's the curiosity if it'll hurt and if you'll live long enough to see if you really did have any brains. Maybe they'll splatter across the wall, over the floor, maybe you'll see all the twisted and ugly thoughts blast away with the single pull of the trigger and before you die things will make sense.
Say you do pull the trigger. You called a friend but they didn't answer. Or they answered and said they were 'too busy to talk.' You went to someone's house to talk to them and they weren't home. Worse yet, they didn't come to the door because they never know what to say when you're upset. Say you do these things and you think it's because they don't love you.
If they don't love you, they never did.
You don't pause for thought. You grab the gun, crying and shaking, fumble on the trigger and then the shot rings out and the pain is brief and the room fades almost at once. Game over.
If you feel like this and don't know where to go or how to word it in your suicide letter, maybe you're not ready to die. Maybe you're looking for that ray of light to shoot through the smallest gap between the branches of doubt, fear, regret, loneliness, hopelessness -- whatever burdens you carry. If you feel like you don't know where you're going, that your footsteps are taking you in circles, why not walk with your arms outstretched and see if a friend takes your hand and pulls you into an embrace?
If you have to think about the letter, perhaps it's because you shouldn't be writing it.
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