A conversation arose. One of those macabre conversations that I enjoy so much. It was about how contemplating suicide is so romantic, and how we can almost touch ourselves when we envision the teary-eyed fit when we 'show them all' and bite down on that cold, metallic barrel. I think that I think about it way too often. It's almost become like a fantasy; a place I can escape to either in the middle of a crowd or under the blankets in my own bed. It's like a secret love affair, and the contemplative thought is always there when you need it, offering hope and consolation. Maybe I'm just twisted; that has yet to be disproven. It's funny though, because I can write about suicide and not be the least bit depressed; it has just become part of my life and though I don't talk about it often, I think about it constantly. I think it's our ultimate freedom, despite it being illegal in the eyes of the law. It was put to me by my friend about how free will and choice are our only true freedoms, because no matter how terrible things get, however hopeless and useless life may get, you can always hit that ejector button, and pull out, and face the great mystery. If it weren't for the contemplation of suicide, I'd have most likely done it by now.
A suicide examination
2:22 p.m.//02.09.05
Mood: Listless, I suppose.
[previous]������[forward]