I thought about killing myself again today. I'm not quite sure what it is about suicide. I'm not depressed or sad. I'm not angry with the world. I'm actually quite happy with myself and my life...most of the time. These ideas just get into my head and I can't let them go until I've thought them all the way through. Today I thought about walking in front of a city bus instead of boarding it like I always do. I imagine the look I'd give the mass of metal and rubber as it hurled itself at me. I imagined the thump as my skull knocked hard on the concrete leaking blood out in a gory halo around me. I imagine the phone call the police would make to my parents, maybe using my own cell phone to look up the number if it weren't in pieces. And that phone call would result in a series of phone calls: first to my brothers, My grandparents, all of my aunts and uncles, and finally my roommate who probably would end up calling my parents after I didn't return home from work. The women would sob, my father would hide in the bathroom and quietly weep. My brothers would be the strength my parents would need, carefully encouraging them to make the arrangements and doing it for them when they couldn't.
In my imagination, my roommate would tell my parents how I'd like my remains handled, donating everything I can and cremating the rest. But who would call my other friends? The ones I rarely see? My employers? That guy at the mall that I gave my number to?sadly, I think that task would fall to my roommate. She'd have to be strong an make dozens of phone calls to people she had only met once or twice. But she'd do it because she'd want me to make those calls of it were her that had been mowed down by a bus.
Afterward, my mother would be constantly consoled by her bother who also had to bury his child. I'm unclear as to whether this would actually comfort her or completely annoy her.
I imagine what would happen to my mind after I died. What would happen to the voice inside my brain, constantly narrating my own life. Would it finally grow silent and lie still? Or is there a place for it to form a being for itself and live on in peace? I suppose that's part of the attractiveness of death. What comes next? Where do we go from here? Not to mention the drama that occurs after a death, especially a suicide. People ask a million questions after a suicide. Why? Why didn't we see it? Why didn't he say something? Why did he do it? Why didn't we do something when we saw signs? Why didn't we try to help?
And that's the irony of my suicide. I am a happy. There are no signs, no reasons, no downward spiral. Just the curiosity of death and the desire for a little drama in my lfe.
This is cool Kaleb, morbid, but cool. It kind of reminds me of that short story about a man, I think named Schmidt, who woke up and read his obituary in the paper. The whole story was centered around how he would read the paper to see whether or not he died.
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