So Long…

145INtheEND

Here’s something I never thought I’d say…

I’m going to kill myself.

It won’t be easy, but I’m planning it now. It makes me sad to go out this way. When it’s over you’ll have this “suicide note” as they call them.

But who am I writing it for?

Thanks to me there’s no one left who cares. So here’s how it will go; someone will find my body and the cornoner’s office will send people over to process me. Discussions about where to have dinner and cracks about sports events will punctuate any observations about my apparently pitiful existence, and then it’s off to the morgue.

They’ll tag me and gut me and put me in a drawer. When no one claims the body it’s into to the pauper’s grave I go. A cardboard box will be my final home. Then it will disintegrate around me even as I dissolve into molecules within it.

That is sad, I guess. But I won’t be any deader than anyone else. Hell, over 90 per cent of the people ever born have already died. Join the crowd.

So who am I writing this for? Me. To make sure I go through with it. To make the case for it. So I don’t ghost around this world alive for the next 30 years, becoming the bitter, angry old jerk who hates everything and everyone around him.

Why am I alone? I had many opportunities not to be. I never used to be. But I learned how to push people away. And then I learned how to keep them away.

At first it was because of insecurity. My mother accidentally convinced me not to trust relationships. She left me when I was five and went off with a man who led her into alcoholism and death by liver failure.

Yes, it happened long, long ago, and if I’m aware of the cause why did it persist as a problem? I figured it out with my first girlfriend by the time I was 17. Mom left me and I don’t trust anyone to stay. Got it.

But after a while it wasn’t so much about the insecurity. Another girl friend would always come along. Then even a wife. But I rejected them before they could me. They were fools. They were more insecure than I and for less reason. Why should I suffer the indignities of emotional turmoil that fools bring upon themselves and those around them? In hope that they will suffer mine?

Is it to have just anyone to grow old beside? Who wants to “grow” old? That’s the antithesis of growth. It’s to have someone to decay along with. To diminish and shrink with until only one is left – to finish the grim process alone.

All of it might be worthwhile if the world itself were worthy. Growing old in a paradise would be one thing. This is not a paradise, and for the old it can be and usually is about giving up, losing, grieving, regretting, being restricted and becoming invisible. That is not me.

And yet it is what I am becoming.

Even objectively, scholars have noticed the whole world becoming angrier. Driven crazy by the maddening pace of a society ever-receding from a normal person’s grasp, people are agitated. General levels of cruelty and indifference have risen. Society itself has become the bully, daring you to keep up or drop out.

I’ve lived long enough to see generations repeat the same mistakes. Evolution isn’t fast enough or certain enough in its workings to save us from zapping ourselves out of existence. Do I really want to be here for the next and final Holocaust?

Because that will be a grand, bloody version of species suicide. I, once the optimist in the crowd, am finally convinced that there are too many stark raving fools among humanity to avoid misusing the tools made possible by intelligence. Whole cities, indeed whole countries are about to perish in the nuclear fog.

So I’m leaving. I won’t say exactly how or when even though no one is reading this yet. But I will be over soon. And I did have a life that knew moments of great satisfaction.

I want to leave on my own terms. There is so little that one can control in this existence.

Getting out of it should be one.

I’ve dreamed of tomorrows since I was that little boy. That’s where I want to go.

P.S.

Not a cry for help. By the time his appears I’ll be gone. Not to worry, if anyone might.

 

 

 

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