I think about death more than anything. I think about it every minute of the day. I think about how I will die. I don't think about dying of old age. I think of ways to end my life. I wonder which kitchen knife has the sharpest blade to pierce straight into my chest and deep into my heart. I think about which roads that have the busiest, fast-paced traffic or if any oncoming truck is huge to kill me immediately. I think of all the buildings, which are the highest to jump off. At which angle should I jump so that I will drop head first? I want a tragic suicide. Maybe the rusty pen knife in my pencil box which I have used over and over again will be my final weapon. Just deeper and deeper, each cut nearer to the veins. I think about hanging by a rope tied around my neck. I have never lived, only breathed. I have never thrived, barely making it through the day. Everyday I wake up questioning myself if I made the right choice to continue living another painful day. I battle my inner voices. I battle my innate desire to end my life. Everything's wrong.
“A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty. People pontificate, "Suicide is selfishness." Career churchmen like Pater go a step further and call in a cowardly assault on the living. Oafs argue this specious line for varying reason: to evade fingers of blame, to impress one's audience with one's mental fiber, to vent anger, or just because one lacks the necessary suffering to sympathize. Cowardice is nothing to do with it - suicide takes considerable courage. Japanese have the right idea. No, what's selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching. The only selfishness lies in ruining strangers' days by forcing 'em to witness a grotesqueness.”
- David Mitchell
