A SUICIDE NOTE FROM A MAN RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS DEATH
This is a suicide note from a man responsible for his death. This is the final page in the life of a man who has dealt all his cards. This is the last lap. I give up. I can’t do it anymore. I’ll throw in the towel. I can’t do it anymore. I’m a loser. I’m a scam. I’m mediocre. I’m below average. I’m coming out of the closet. No more of this Iron Man façade. No more of this. The road is rougher than I expected. The hunger pangs sharper than a Persian blade. My pocket knows no bumps. Unlike Khaled, I am actually young, dumb and broke.
I bit more than I could chew. I carried more than my shoulders. I stacked my tray with more orders than I could deliver. I have failed.
I have no God, no love, no heart, no mind, no soul, no spirit. Just a numb bum ricocheting like a stray bullet.
Oh, I have literature! But literature doesn’t pay the bills, except you sell your soul to the screen and digital media. Screenwriters, content writers — failed writers too cowardly to pen a good book down. Many will come after me for saying this. They can have me. A dead body holds no grudges.
Back to my suicide. In my homicide, responsibility calls. In my pain, they still drain me. They all want a piece of me. I must be pizza. Too bad I can’t have me.
I rode on past glories to my present storm. I ride the waves like I’m still in form. I gave up, but I’m still in the race. The brakes don’t work. The doors are jammed. What they call multitasking is simply me swinging from lane to lane, fighting to stay alive.
I should scream for help. But through my car window, they egg me on! Cheering, miming, maybe they love me. But right now, I’d give my right arm for a jeer, a taunt, an insult, a stab in the back, something, anything to validate my true beliefs of myself.
I’m messed up. But I keep a crooked smile to redeem my features. Redemption. I know the Camp, but I once my lost my way there. Prayer, I know the City. But I never lasted like a man with a weak penis. Miracle? That’s a Mountain I’m too logical to climb.
God is good, and his mercies endureth, but the wall between us endureth forever more. He’s a Democrat. I’m a Republican. We have a lot in common, we’re just too stuck in our ways to admit it.
Am I conceited to compare myself with God? Yes. But when you’re in your last moments, anything goes, even a sin against God’s Spirit, albeit unforgivable.
My suicide. I can’t even die boldly. I use words to postpone the evil moment. The same way I’ve used words to plot each day of my life.
I have no will to live. Before my pen on paper renewed my vigour. It does no more. Yet I lack the will to live. But somehow, the deed must be done.
So this is it; I will take my hands of the wheels. Stop pressing the brakes in vain. Recline the seat. Let the car go its way. I will submit to Fate. Sooner or later, the car will hit a wall, the oil will dry, the fuel will run out. It will all come to an end. I will die. I will die a hero in active service.
Bury me in the ocean, like my ancestors that jumped from ships, because they knew death was better than bondage.