http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journals_(Cobain)
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This entry is a response to j's.
While she's on the topic, regardless if it's in jest or she bored, ya have to admit it's in everybody's head. Yes, I'm not ashamed to admit that I've contemplated suicide before. Be it a phase, an idea of escape, religious or last resort, I think it's human nature to think about it.
Who wants to live forever anyway?
I always remember the kitchen window at my parents' house. They took off the iron grills when their kids were big enough and replaced with sliding glass. When the glass were slided all to aside, it's just like a mid-air doorway to the skies. It's wide enough to fit two person, probably they have to help one another up the ledge, holding still to one's elbow and when the wind is right, it'll pull them off. And the wind is always right up at the seven floor.
I think I was about sixteen and thought of flying out that kitchen window humored me until I was twenty. Of course I wouldn't consider jumping off my own block. I'm not out for revenge. I guess enough is simply enough. I have seen life, passing around the same corner, the way it was yesterday, one year before and always will be in centuries. I have nothing to look forward to other than waking up to depression and my inferiority complex. No future, no love and no dreams. It has became a struggle to even begin my day. I felt drained at the slightest business and choked and suffocated with regularity. The people I have to meet and small talks I would have with them, hating every letter of it. I dragged my footsteps and turned insomniac. I read books and watch films excessively for escape. At train stations, in malls, around the fire exits, I will always look at the tiny sign of a green man running towards a promised exit. I wished I was green.
At sixteen I gave life a chance to redeem itself. By twenty five if I'm still not happy, in any ways or forms that allow me to look forward to the rest of my life, I will kill myself. I had plenty of time to lay it out. Plotting your own death is quite similar in plotting others. In Singapore where homes are built to reach the skies, jumping off them is a popular choice. However it will have to be far away from when I lived. I can't let my parents or the neighbours see the sight of me on the pavement. It will be in Jurong or somewhere across the sunny island. I will be fallible, unidentifiable and free hitting the gravel.
But that was years ago. Now when I looked back, I like to think that joining nursing has changed that. It allowed me to meet my wife, caring for the sick gave me a purpose and some societal meaning for existence, there were always be better books, films, music and ideas for inspirations and I like it when people read what I write. Alive I am able reminisce about the misguided bouts with my school fling, pretend that I could still can become a bestseller and continued to be enthralled by how perversely the beautiful japanese pornstars can be.
One lifetime. No less, no more. It's the same deal as everybody else.
