ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong. I've been thinking about suicide a lot lately. No; not killing myself, you dolt. Christ, haven't you heard anything I've said? Just the act, itself; the cultural phenomenon of it. The play that I'm in is only one of five that play in the night, ranging from seven to thirty five minutes long. The first one involves a man who is a victim of spousal abuse. In the shocking conclusion, he kills his abusive wife, who is pregnant with their child, and then puts a gun in his mouth as the lights drop. Entertainment always does that: after the dreaded act, they drop the lights and roll the credits. Sometimes they can get the emotions right. Sometimes they can show a crying loved one in the aftermath. 99% of the time, they fade to black and hang it up. They never get it right; all of it, I mean. I've seen it. All of it. From beginning to end (that's a fallacy; there is no end). It's... different. Suicide is not a singular act. It's not a case of one person going to the grave and the world just keeps spinning. What actually happens is one person goes to the grave and, as a result of the world continuing to revolve on its axis without them, parts and pieces and integral components of those left behind get tossed into the grave with them. It's like watching a Pharoah die. They throw his ass in the tomb and then all of his worldly possessions: gold, furniture, pets, servants, etc. My brother pulled a trigger and took himself away from us. He also took a part of me, a part of my mother, a part of my father, a part of my uncle, a part of his hometown, a part of American Youth Culture, a part of the world that most will never even realize they've lost. What parts are these? The part that he took from me is the necessary emotions that one should have to facilitate making lasting connections with people around them. He took my trust in human life. He took away from me the illusion of permanence; the naive guarantee of "tomorrow". He took from me the ability to give myself to anyone. I can't love any of you because I know that you'll be gone. I know that it will happen and I know that it will still catch me off guard. It will happen before I've said all that I wanted to say, shown you all that I wanted you to see, felt you enough to the point that I thought that I knew you well. So, why bother? Why should I start a conversation with you that I won't be able to finish? Why start a dance that will end before the song is over? One of us will die and take the investment of time and energy that the other had put forth into our courtship with them. Why bother? I wish that I could believe. I wish that I could be happy with what we do have time for. But I just can't. I've seen what the blast will do to a person. I've seen the blood. I've seen the pallor of dead skin, and now I see it everywhere, on the faces of everyone I meet. I see the bruised eyelids and the foamy discharge oozing from the corner of your mouths. I'll talk to you about the weather. I'll invite to a concert or a movie or a show or a party. I'll tell you a really funny story about a bowel movement. We'll get along. But I won't make any plans with you for next week. And I don't think I'll ever know you or let you know me. I won't ask you to marry me or co-finance a house with me on a 30-year mortgage. I doubt I'd even go halvies with you on a burger combo. I just can't. Because tomorrow, you'll be dead, and I'll have a whole burger that will just remind me of you. I'll have a big, empty house. I'll have a groove in my finger where the ring used to be. And you'll have another part of me... And I'm running out of parts to spare. My philosophy on life is: If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong. Pessimistic? Yeah. But true? Yeah. 12:58 a.m. - 2004-04-23 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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