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Christy Clyde
01-31-2014, 10:55 AM
I fear I will not have died a natural death. And I feel bad for not feeling bad about it. Maybe I have thrown myself in front of a train and all the passengers had to get out and wait because of me. Maybe they saw my intestines and all organs stuck on the rails or the wagon. Maybe there were children amongst them. Maybe the train driver will never be able to work in his job again. Maybe he will be racked by nightmares and maybe he asks himself if he could have acted faster in order to prevent the accident.
Maybe I cut my wrists. Maybe it was one of the neighbours that I always liked because they never complained about the loud noises coming out of my flat when I tried to compose, screamed while rehearsing lyrics, or when I had men over. Maybe it was one of them who found me; attracted by the acrid smell of decay.
MaybeI jumped off a high-rise. There is one here, close to the water, where a lot of people already did it. Maybe death has already become a part of the everyday lives of the inhabitants, but maybe my body crashed down in front of pedestrians; in front of a couple newly in love that just walked along the promenade firmly convinced of experiencing the most beautiful time of their lives Ė up until this moment.
Maybe I hung myself in the woods where the boys from the small village outside of my hometown built their camp in the summer. Maybe one of them came back in the naive hope to find a lost trading card. Maybe he found a dangling woman instead of his card, and maybe he then had to go to one of these child psychiatrists trying to ruin his life just like mine. Maybe one day the boy will also hang from this tree.
Maybe I overdosed on pills, on one of your cool parties where a driven mind like me just sits bored in a corner, watching, sometimes writing, only to find out again and again how complacent the guests are, just like the driven mind. Maybe I would have locked myself in one of the toilets and maybe no one would have noticed that I didnít come back. Maybe the owner of the bar would break the door open at some point and then my intestines would already be emptied and he would worry about his reputation, or even feel good because my suicide would make this place even more special. Maybe all of them would talk about it; about this party where one of them took her life, and there would be the wildest rumors about the reasons and the course of events. Maybe all of them would claim to have seen or heard something.
But no matter how I took my life Ė I did it out of love! Not because I wanted to make a statement that there is still someone dying for love. No. I did it because I could no longer bear to live without the thing that has always been the highest and the most important, and that I never got from those I really loved, due to my own fault. Due to craziness. Due to wisdom. Due to fear. Due to malice. Due to delusion.
Maybe in the deepest moment, while being completely submerged in myself and becoming one with the world and the ghosts shortly before crossing the threshold separating the living and the dead, I will have understood. Maybe I will have understood that at this point I achieved the highest state of freedom that a human being can have. The freedom to do everything for love, infinitely, unconditionally, shamelessly, whenever and how long I want to.
For example the freedom to only write a short story about my death, my love and this freedom.