Before I die, I will visit Paris; I will visit Rome. I will tell my soul mate I love her. I will look upon a snow flake, into its symmetrical heart, and see my cryptic identity bearing a sense of completeness. But I may never witness a man, so distraught in his own thinking, that he decides to thread a noose upon the barren branches of an oak and say, “Life is messy.” I may never witness those seconds of the world’s inattention. Those spaces in time when nobody cares because nobody knows until he dies.
My mind shrouded, a dark veil of curiosity enveloping. A perception woven with the fabric of baptismal garments and mortuary linens. Life, death, and the space between.
Explain to you I must. There is so much beauty in life and death, but life cannot exist without the latter. To be alive, you must be able to die. So, then, if life is made beautiful by death, why is it hard to see until it is stripped lifeless by the death’s hand? Perhaps for the same reason light remains unmeasured until we see the full depths of the dark: the gap when life parts and absence sets in.
A suicide, a tragic ode from above: it was at that moment of death, when the neck snapped, laid slain against the rope’s coarse fibers, and everything became alive—the absence of life, death.
Let me tell you: When a man whispers into your ear “Life is messy,” there isn’t much you can do to change his mind. All you can do is watch him dangle and die. So I often ask myself, “What about my parents?” What could they have done other than watch me dangle and die? They provided all the help in the world. They tried everything to get me off of drugs, yet, they were helpless. I had already made the decision. I had already imposed that suicide upon myself, rendering me helpless by nature. I had found myself in the throes of mental illness that I could not live with. It was like my mind was filled with marbles: there were always spaces between the marbles.
I pose the question: What about life? Yes, the aforementioned are a few of the things I would most enjoy before I die, but there has got to be more. More than being just an aborted baby drowning in the embryonic fluids of life: living not, knowing not, and just trying not to die.
For me, it was finding Christ. After all, what is the point in living a sober life just so I can go to my own funeral and say, “I had 20 years clean, but I didn’t have eternal life.”