I no longer know how to go on with life. On one end, I feel like I am forced to live an existence I no longer want. I want to check out and be done with it. I just want to be dead, somehow.
Dying, in my phenomenological standpoint, is an obligation I owe to myself. And I refuse to surrender its execution to diseases or years; I have resolved, years ago, that I will die in my hands, in my method.
No, I’m not going to hang myself. Goddess that is boring. Since I will die only once, I want the conclusion of my existence to be… legendary. On a darker note, there are suicides that I admire. I liked Charlotte Gilman’s method with chloroform. I find it ingenious.
Perhaps my personal favorite is Maningning Miclat. She climbed the highest building in FEU and jumped on her back, so the last thing she saw was the sky. It was tragic but beautiful in its way.
I have always imagined my death to happen in a forest. The last thing that I want to see are leaves suspended in mid-air.
But there are so many things that I want to do, so many books that I want to read, so many places that I want to see. For instance, I have not had my share of rhum cake yet. And I am yet to meet an actual gypsie in a wagon.
And what is life without having those?
I guess I will just make a list of those things and begin accomplishing them. Then I will cross them out, one by one. When my list runs out, I will take it as the time to find my forest and go home —
where coffee awaits on the table
where pinewoods burn in the hearth
where a hundred leaves fly in mid-air
where trees are no longer lonely.