On The Writing of Suicide Notes

I never really imagined it. Writing a suicide note. What would I say? What would I commit forever into the syndication of ink and paper? Would it be the usual black pen, scribbled in a notebook, page torn out with fringe carefully removed? Would it be typed and printed, impersonal, informal, all too clear? Would it be in pencil: light, fading? Who would I speak to? Family, friends, the world? What would I have to say? Who would find it? Who would interpret it? Would there be metaphors? Similies? An amature attempt at accessing lofty genius?

I never really imagined writing it. I never would. Do proper suicides require a letter to those left behind? Isn't it just some old, macabre tradition? Let the dead speak, because they wouldn't talk during life, or else, we were not enough to listen. But the dead can't talk. Their mouths are shut forever. Pity the living, chasing the mysteries of the dead. What is a suicide note but another mystery. It invariably misses some vital motivation, emotion, thought.

Not that I'm not completely against them. Something in bad humor, of course, would be very much appreciated once in a while. Something simple. Something classy. "Gone on holiday." "If I'm not dead right now, I feel comfortable knowing you'll kill me for this anyway."

But in all that thinking, I never once included a note.


Now:

Is this an evolution towards more dire straits? Evidence of a developing fantasy?

Probably not.

I'm at once too much a coward, and not enough of one.

Mmmm, paradox.