suicide

The last time I saw you, you were wearing a white cotton shirt. You were standing upright with your wife on the lawn, in the sunlight, in front of the chateau, at my brother__ wedding. You shared in the enthusiasm of the ceremony. For my part, I felt distanced from it. I didn__ recognize my family in this mundane get-together. You didn__ seem put off by the bourgeois ceremony, or by my brother__ choice to have his love approved by third parties, even when these were distant third parties. You didn__ have the sad and absent look you normally took on at public gatherings. You smiled, watching the people, a little tipsy from the wine and the sun, chatting on the large lawn between the white stone façade and the two-hundred-year-old cedar tree. I often wondered, after your death, if that smile, the last one I saw from you, was mocking, or if instead it was the kindly smile of someone who knew that soon he would no longer partake in earthly pleasures. You didn__ regret leaving these behind, but neither were you averse to enjoying them a little longer.

People ask why my brother killed himself. "Why would such a gifted journalist, whose works have won all the prizes in the world, do such a thing?" "He had so many friends, why would he want to leave them?" "But what about all he had to live for?" In a short space of time, I had a drawerful of articles wirtten by reporters pondering the death of one who, like them, made a living out of trying to sort out the truth, separating fact from conjecture. They were hell-bent on making sense out of this event.When they phoned, I told them they were going to fail. I told them that the problem with suicide is that it is a senseless event. There is no why.But of course that's wrong. There are numerous whys, though it's almost impossible, or unlikely that any single one of them is "the answer" that people want to hear.

Seven little crazy kids chopping up sticks;One burnt her daddy up and then there were six.Six little crazy kids playing with a hive;One tattooed himself to death and then there were five.Five little crazy kids on a cellar door;One went all schizo and then there were four.Four little crazy kids going out to sea;One wouldn't say a word and then there were three.Three little crazy kids walking to the zoo;One jerked himself too much and then there were two.Two little crazy kids sitting in the sun;One a took a bunch of pills and then there was one.One little crazy kid left all alone;He went and slit his wrists, and then there were none.

Sit tight, I'm gonna need you to keep time Come on just snap, snap, snap your fingers for me Good, good now we're making some progress Come on just tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue?Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wivesApplause, applause, no wait wait Dear studio audience, I've an announcement to make:It seems the artists these days are not who you think So we'll pick back up on that on another page And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wivesSwear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wivesSwear to shake it up, you swear to listenSwear to shake it up, you swear to listenSwear to shake it up, you swear to listenSwear to shake it up, swear to shake it upSwear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes

Is this some kind of joke?""That's for me to know and you to find out.""Maybe you think it's funny to put up signs about people who want to commit sui

And I want to tell you about everything but I can't because I couldn't stand for you to have that look on your face all the time. I just need you to look at me and think that I'm normal. I just really need that from you.

Drowning,Drowning on the land,Drowning,It doesn't end.

If you want to commit suicide why tell anyone? They'd ruin everything.

Anyone can be crazy. That's usually just because there's something screwed up in your wiring, you know? But suicide is a whole different thing. I mean, how much do you have to hate yourself to want to just wipe yourself out?

I've thought a lot about suicide and near death experiences. I'm not saying I'm going to kill myself or anything. However, I've had a lot of passive thoughts about "what's the point?". I see life for what it is. We live, we procreate, we die. So the next gen can do it again. What's my purpose or point? Why bother? What do I have to live for? The near death experiences come in with me being curious about after life. If I knew I'd be okay would I just go there, would that change my mind about my purpose?

Sons of suicides seldom do well.

On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide__t was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese__he two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope.

I wonder how long it would take him to realize I'm right as sin - it's the rest of the world that's wrong. I'm not even sure how I qualify for admission to Aspen Springs. Does wanting to die equal losing your mind?

So it's back once more, back up the slope.Why do they always ruin my ropewith their cuts?I felt so ready the other day,Had a real foretaste of eternityIn my guts.Spoonfeeding me yet another sipfrom life's cup.I don't want it, won't take any more of it.Let me throw up.Life is medium rare and good, I see,And the world full of soup and bread,But it won't pass into the blood for me,Just goes to my head.It makes me ill, though others it feeds;Do see that I must deny it!For a thousand years from now at leastI'm keeping a diet.

You and your scars. Please! You don't kill youself like this!" I gesture, holding a wrist turned up to the ceiling, then pretending to cut across it with my other hand. "That's just a cry for help. That's just attention. Everbody knows that. Cutting across just gets you to the hospital. That's just from movies and TV shows and stuff like that. You didn't really try to kill yourself. you just wanted attention, but you screwed up. Try harder next time.

From where would failed Americans leap if all of our towering buildings were razed to the ground? He envisions inflated airfares to Niagara Falls; renewed interest in the nations dams and gorges; long lines at the Grand Canyon, potential suicides being asked to take a numbered ticket, to wait their turn. Couldn't Al Qaeda see that we are killing our own well enough? Competitive society creates deep-rooted feelings of failure. On our own we succeed at self-termination; America needs no foreign aid from these murderers.

But suicides have a special language.Like carpenters they want to know which tools.They never ask why build.Twice I have so simply declared myself,have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,have taken on his craft, his magic.

During a warm winter rain ... the basins of her collarbones collected water.