This is it, the last one.
From this moment on my person will be seen by no one save the dozens of plastic faux marble eyes staring out at me from the recesses of my shelf lined walls. The childhood animals, the books that have influenced me and ceased to influence me will be my only companions as I journey. Not as frivolous as an Egyptian tomb, but it shall suffice. O daylight, I will not miss thee, but long for the moment at which the blackness inside this vessel shall tear my flesh asunder as it releases itself on an unknowing world. A veritable Pandora’s Box of nasty stuff awaits he who opens the morning door to my solitary chamber. Yes, I am implying exactly what you, the reader, undoubtedly fear most. For purposes of opacity and intrigue, this act will go unnamed. Amusing, how before, in my scribblings, I always strived for complete and total honesty, living in a glass house and all that. The fact that self-expression was so unbearably difficult drove me to spend hours feverishly tearing the pages of a mad notebook until blisters formed on my tortured fingers. Now all that is moot irrelevant passé. My final missive will be a tome unlike any other to fall from this brain. The tears I cry now will be the last to fall from these eyes, these eyes that have been open for so long, plagued by desiccation, having found no truth to believe in, no hand to hold through the muddy nights of loathing and perversion.
Before you write me off as a coward or a selfish melodramatic let me explain the reason for my actions. Yes, this is not as irrational as you may like to think. That would be too easy an explanation- oh he must have been on something, dear me his poor deluded brain, what pain he must have been in to do such a thing. No, this isn’t a mental haze.
This is clarity.
Do not think, when you read this, that there was anything that could have been done. No, in stark contrast to the usual complaints, I have nothing against the world I have been brought up in. There was a point wherein the social morass
actually managed to affect me. But that was long before I ever managed to disconnect
. Ah, what a blissful thing it is to possess the knowledge that, no matter what strife, what unavoidable chain of events
was transpiring around you, it is possible not to feel a thing. And this might have been a comfort had I been able to extend my new found powers of indifference to the world I made for myself. It is this world that brings me here. Don't bother searching my room for existence-ending paraphernalia
, for I have never attempted before. In the futility of the moment, this is all I have left. Aside from the usual feelings of nausea
and basic impotence, there is a darker aspect contributing to my decision. Night after night, as I fulfill my role as scribe for the blather of the mind, squinting in the misty candlelight with quill pen
poised in painted fingers, I have grown continually disgusted with the scene in which I have become inescapably encapsulated. Before, this ire seemed sourceless, bound in a void with no anchor. Only now, in the end, do I understand.
Case in point: the recent unfortunate suicide of Cassiel. That wasn't his real name, of course, but it was the name by which I knew him best. Any indication of his birth moniker has been erased from my feeble memory. It was two nights ago, as I dwelled idly at the Alchemist's Cocktail, mocking the dancing mall Goth kiddies with their wrists stapled to foreheads, all decked out in the typical five dollar spiked bracelets and dog collar ensemble, that I was approached by several acquaintances- I can't honestly call them friends- that would be too generous. Their approach was stealthy, making me drop my clove cigarette onto my crush velvet pants, burning my thigh. The news they brought, retold with such joy, that Cassiel had finally fulfilled his role on this Earth through death by drowning, alleviated any anger I might have felt about my aching extremity, and instead replaced it with utter revulsion. I have had it up to here with this "Gother-Than-Thou" attitude that pervades my social circle. While it was well known that Cassiel was a borderline depressive case, kept alive by drugs prescribed by psychiatrist after psychiatrist, the insidious controlling drug dealer of the medical world, these fools upheld him as some sort of martyr for the Goth subculture. The emptiness within me transformed, in that instant, into a vacuum. I am rebelling, now, against all that I used to be, that I still am, that I cannot fathom being any longer. Once it is done I will be free of this vicious circle, this torrid mess of affairs that we so foolishly call life. Yes, I am transcending.
O Angst, god of contrived repetitive woe, why have you taken so many before and not me? Why have I, living in darkness, waiting for nothing but the touch of your cold cold hand, been forced to spend all of sixteen years in this miserable world of phenomena void of their contingent noumena? Yes, I've read my Kant- don't think that this is an uneducated decision. Enough. Enough is enough. I have no excuses to make. The reasons have been given. Soon I shall taste the sweet ambrosia of oblivion. O Charon, paddle not across the solitary waters of Lethe without me, your rightful passenger. I have not the fee, yet I possess the determination; let me row, make me swim behind your dark canoe pushing with all of my Sisyphean might, but do not leave me behind! From my vantage point upon this dock I can see a beckoning lantern.
Ah yes, here they are at last, death's lights.