Staring at the ceiling, I follow the cracks in the plaster that stretch from one side of the room to the other. I try to find meaning, but there’s little of anything save for the cracks. I think about dying. I don’t want to die. Certainly not any time soon. It has to be said though, that I’ve entertained the idea of romantic suicide. Well, not romantic suicide, just suicide. Not because I’m sad, or that I don’t see the point of living, but because life to me has always been something of a burden. I never asked to be born. It was thrust upon me without me having any say in the matter, and I’ve gone on to spend my whole life having to justify the reasons for why I choose to live it the way I do. Not fair if you ask me. I’ll never do it though. Kill myself that is. I don’t have the conviction. Plus, I’m too squeamish. Meeko and I once got drunk and talked about killing ourselves together. We weren’t seriously considering it, but for a moment, it seemed to be a more exciting option than writing manuscripts for a living no one’s willing to read, let alone publish. The morning after, we acted it as if it had been the beer talking, but we both knew it wasn’t. Sometimes, on my walks, I come to an area of woodland and think about going there to die. Surrounded by nature, it seems the perfect way to go. No humans. No intrusion. Just me, the trees, and my desire to exit stage left.
Knowing my luck though, I won’t die, but merely fall into a state of unconsciousness, and when I awake, the animals will have begun to devour my face. Birds will have pecked out my eyes, and either a fox or badger will have chewed my tongue and cheek. As much as I love my feathered and furry kin, I don’t trust them to leave me alone knowing a tasty snack is on the cards. Guess I could drown myself like Virginia Woolf by filling my pockets with stones and walking into a river. But I’m not much of a fan of water. I don’t like the unseen, you see. It’s why I’d never throw myself off a bridge or the top of a multi-storey carpark—because I don’t want my insides coming out for all and sundry to gawp at. Not to mention, it’s not very dignified. Plus, I might change my mind on the way down, and by then, it will be too late. They say jumpers from bridges often turn at the last second and try grabbing hold of something, realising they wish to keep living. One of Meeko’s uncles killed himself. He drove his car into his garage, shut the door and then turned on the ignition. It’s probably the most sensible way to go; to drift away into sleep. Yet I couldn’t put Meeko through that. She was only young when he died, yet she still remembers it vividly. The memories come to her in dreams. The screams wake me in the dead of night.
I’m overly morbid, I know, and yet it’s very easy to sink into a funk. Especially when it comes with not being able to write. It’s how I imagine it is for those who can’t fuck. If I couldn’t get it up anymore, I don’t think I’d be overly bothered. The idea of not being able to write though—of not being able to express myself—it leaves me feeling as though there’s no point of being here at all. Folding my arms over my chest, I imagine myself to be floating somewhere in the ocean. At first, it’s peaceful, but then the thought of there being several miles of murkiness beneath me causes me to break out in goosebumps.