“I don’t want to live anymore” – came bustling the thought that had been cornered in pretension of permanence. For not only had I stepped out of the premeditated ideations around death but I had also believed that I would not go back to that state of mind. So, it was natural that the thought induced not just fear but also sadness.
These days are glossy in appearance but have gathered themselves around me as a veil of dark monotony and shunned presence. The illusory emotions – loneliness, fear – circle as the rising steam and slowly tumbling down as if there is not a care in the world to hold them upright.
As the day progressed, lesser attention was directed towards this ailment. And perhaps, it is that that the mental energy was taken away from it that the thought subsided and was again forgotten. But, I intend to write about it without really wanting to bring it back to the surface. What would happen if I write about it? Probably nothing. A page will hold the momentary truth (alas! only a version) and gather rust until the day comes when I come back to the page to relive it.
No, that is not my intention. My intention to see what feelings it evokes as I write it down. So as I write, confusion arises, not so much about the reasonings or questions but about the thought itself. Why do I not want to live anymore? What would be so troublesome that the mind would manufacture this premise to be considered?
Death is polished with such glorious events and great and ordinary lives have ended themselves as an easy escape route from here. But, I think, it is not so much the death that is alluring. It is perhaps the courage that takes birth in oneself when the thought of death is transcended and the thought becomes an action. The bottle of drugs meant for an overdose, the sharp metal to graze against the skin, the rope that lets the body hang in mid-air as freedom. That closeness to one’s source of misinterpreted freedom – the perception through each sense – that closeness incites courage, confidence, a mythic superpower.
Not everyone who writes about death wants to die. At this moment, a thought appears and as transience is the nature of all forms, it disappears. The courage felt could be lost and the want to die could mellow itself into thin air. As an average day would end, one can only pray that the person, who had thought of death, has forgotten it altogether.
Nothing has moved differently but nothing remains the same too. “I don’t want to live anymore” does not hold anymore. So I will slip into slumber as my day ends, easily.