“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.”
Langston Hughes

Going crazy all of a sudden and ending up crouched at the same spot, while my head splits, not because of the drugs mind you but with all that you never want to see, to feel as if something’s pulling you down so swift and shoots you back up to face yourself just when you’re about to touch rock bottom. It’s like your breathing air and still drowning each moment.
It’s impossible.
I lay in my unmade bed with running mascara down my dry and sodden cheeks waiting for the torture to end. This undissipating, this unfantastic, this torment of arid and hurting emotions, which seem to come from some unknown reticent part of my death encroached, fragile and charred of feelings brain. They seem to keep coming one huge wave after the other and taking my internals by a knot and washing me away from the shore of good life and salvation and the myriad possibilities of existence. They seem to pull me new depths and newer lows everyday and I fall prey to it like the off balance trapeze swinger or like a bird sans wings or like a bomb in a trumpet factory. The noises it makes in my ears are tremendous and unequivocal. But the sound which parts from my lips is none because my tongue is tied into twisty knots of silence.
The last few months of my life have been hell on Earth. The beast of sadness has been walking upon me and I feel trampled under it. The clown of indifference is jeering and making faces at me to which I cannot retort because my face is blank. It’s a white sheet with no features only two black furrows through which tears run and asunder at a point of dryness. I am shame personified and dignity dead. I have been empathy zero and drawn from a desiccated well of nuances and feelings, from a hole which offers no end but offer no support either, like a unending black vacuous hole of madness and desecration. Of degeneracy I am the queen, I have done things unmentionable, I have problems insurmountable and been at the butt end of betrayals and curses. Still I continued to live because there seemed no other option, but now I have seen the light. I have made a deal with death. I got to love life once, but I won’t repeat that same mistake.
Nothing owed to anyone, Is what I think. But isn’t it a tad too selfish and fiendish In a morally lost way. Light patterns blare under closed eyelids. But my heart told my head, is the step worth it. I’m going to change if I get out of this alive.
The slumber came in fits and spasms. The hardness of getting a good sleep is pretty evident on my face and my irate habits. Every sleep is a nightmare, a pantheon of demons dancing around the wild fire of vanity which is feed on human flesh, the reek of the fire made me wide awake in the dead of the night and the carving knife lay right beside me.
I have got a carving knife in my hand and a sink full of water beckoning me to the avarice of death. I’m the maniac kid on the block. Taking a full account of the pros and cons of life I have decided to put a stop to this putrid Still water I call my existence. The nastiest part about taking your own life is the mere courage it takes put the gash in your tender skin. Either that or the accumulated misery of my life has not reached its tipping about, a point where the wills and strength of my mortality will break in infinitesimal pieces of nothingness, become slivers of dead tissues at the place where once used to be my lively beating heart. I haven’t thought much about afterlife, since death and its multipronged aspects keep me busy. But it there is an afterlife, I wish it to be tender. Unlike this one where morality is insignificant and the value of life is calculated in currency and where the everyone is a hypocritical hippopotamus. Unlike this hellhole where everyone is sleeping alone at the end of the night, with not a soul to provide the warmth of body and effervescent spring of supposed to be happiness is quelled with a blanket of pity opinions and moral high ground. I feel like a misfit in this inhumane setting, I feel like an ostracized pariah who walks the corridor of unrest and mutiny of soul every waking minute.

death letter

Since the early days of internal rain of fire and I’m burnt to skin in shame and anxiety, looking for escape seems futile at most because every direction I look all I see is unbound apathy and aggression against me. I have done wrong but I thought I’d be given a chance at correction and redemption, but how wrong and naive were my thoughts. The fiery demons I’d see in my waking dreams roam around me in flowery clothes and with a sly smile on their wicked lips. Am I only one who sees hell on Earth or am I delusional paranoid creep looking for ways out of the bag of life, to detach from the womb of living and slip unnoticed past the horned guardians at the gates of hell.
This is not an apology, this is a rant. A rant against all that has caused me disarray and misery, a belated middle fingered goodbye to all the vicious calamities which struck me down fifty feet beneath the rock bottom. A letter of liberated aggression and magical spit gobbles upon the men, woman and situations under which I ran replete like a ghoul under spell. This is a sermon, a circuitous homily to the dead and dying who don’t have enough room to lift their heads because they are buried alive in a lead casket under the soggy soil of life and its burdens. I’m running away from all the exceptionally limitless possibilities offered under the aegis of life and it’s a hard cruel decision to make. And it was innocent, the voice which said we were all basically alone and I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to dance with the angels and play vile games with red skinned devils and tease the hell hounds. My nature showed its rages every day, and it’s a case of puerile madness through which I live through each day and the heinous amount of substance in my body is literally tearing it apart and through the gaping divide my soul, my crescent moon of a soul, all so beautiful and devious juxtaposed, is escaping to realms unknown and to remarkably dark lanes of a uncanny, ineffable afterlife.
Death is magnetic, almost compelling to me now. It is the only aspect which does not breed contempt on monotony. I’m tired of protocols and rules when all they do is to make human life more miserable and vitriolic. Hapless soul looking for an outlet, I have been pushed into utmost corner with nowhere to turn and all I can do is turn myself into self loathing ball of fungus, which is decayed. I have become a fatalist and I cannot turn the course of my error of a past or the ahead future, everything is planned and set in stone against me. For me death is not a violent aberration which fades away with time, it is a monolith of attraction, towards which I am drawn and called closer to everyday. I’m being buried alive against my will, because will does not exist for me anymore, in its place are regrets and a stingy, patronizing voice of the milieu. I’m expecting renaissance with death and death has become me. At this point I am excreta of a person, worthless and waste only wanting to coalesce myself into the bosom of the Hip Death Goddess.
The faces I’m seeing are hurting my weary eyes. And I want to sleep and not get up forever, let my body pass into the hands of mad and maniacal savages of flesh and bone, who shall devour it and be fulfilled. At least I have been of use in some menially abstract way and that is the epitome of my bereaved life, fodder for cannibals of emotions. The worst view I can have on suicide, is a philosophical one. No religion permits to shake hands with death because humans are supposed to be steely in resolve and are supposed to fight it out till the end of days, when happiness is taken you are supposed to put up a show of resilience and valor and not to fear ridicule. The patience of a true enthusiast of life is unlimited, but mine is floundering fast and on knees. The ravages of the war of life and the bombs it throws on your closed perception is pathetic and it is knotted into a sense of uselessness. I feel unproductive and useless and immature in the most childish ways but it is a feeling you cannot live long with because it enervates your every sense of truth and leaves you high and dry in a lurch. I cannot comprehend the simplest of notions because my valve of information is blocked and soothed with ghastly images satanic beasts in copulation and birds of heaven with their necks wringed.

The wings of my imagination has been hacked off and put on display in the museum of ridicule as an antique because nowadays it does not conjure up anything which resembles a fleeting moment of happiness or joy. How can I live when the only images which fast forward through my callous mind are dead archangels who died in the holy war of mythical morale’s. The ugliness of mind has made me naked in a crowded street from which catcalls and hoots emanate in a swirl of cold hearted laughter and rampant giggles. In this street of insensitivity where the diverse animals of malice crawl on all fours, I am legless.
This death letter is a chant to all those with hatred in their hearts against me that I could have changed, but your vacant unloving eyes and hands with no warmth made me choose otherwise. I’m ashamed that I ever walked amongst you and called you my folks. All I needed was a little loving from your loving cup but you replaced that with a chalice of poison for me, so that I may drink in die in grace like the great Socrates but no, I shall not give you that momentary joy of seeing my eyes close for the last time under your supervision. I shall go out on my own terms just like all my innate actions that I ever undertook in this flurry of passionate living. It was a flurry of passionate living a while back, but now all that remains is heartache like the entrails of a long lost infidelity.
Another day gone by and I still have the knife in my hands, taking life is not easy. It requires oodles of blatant courage, because it is putting an end to the sadness which oozes through my orifices. But at the very same time, it never ceased to amaze me the ranks of men and woman who take this drastic step in quick time and never looked back. How bad was their truck with life, I fought the life and we both lost. Now the only thing that remains to be done is to listen to my favorite songs for one last time so that I may gain a nostalgic touch on the lost flavor of life, which is about to slip out of my slithery hands in a moment of maximum balls and at the same time a momentary lapse of reason, because the decision to take life is a humongous step and it can only be achieved when you have put the sway of cogent reasoning above and beyond your realm of ingrained perception.
The time has come for the actions to speak louder than words. The knife speaks for me as it hunts for full veins across the skin of my left hand. And then it nears the wrist and I slice the with methodical ease and with eyes full of pain and tears. As the wild red blood runs down my hands and I feel the pain lifting slowly and a halo of light sweeping across my closing eyes. And In a while the beam of white light came from the depths of hell or from the unknown conduits of heaven. I don’t know where I am going, I don’t want to know. For once I don’t want to know the answer.

~ Death Letter ~
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