When we think of life, we think of ourselves first. We regard our lives as the most important lives there are on the planet and therefore the most important worth saving and defending. Now there are moments when in regard of another life to be higher than ours we are willing to lay our own down if in so doing we shall preserve the life we regard more important. We have heard of the mothers who in the heat of a fire lay their lives down for their children, and whether that was by impulse or not, we shall not debate. So, we shall agree that life, and more especially our lives are very important and that if they should be wasted, it should not be by our own hands or with our involvement, active or passive.
But when thinking of suicide, what power or force overcomes these pre-existing beliefs and the accompanying knowledge? The rest of the world will deem the person that commits suicide insane and yet that person will think of themselves as a hero. A hero releasing him/herself into a more free space, a more liberating state, one where there are no worries and no fears any more. And we may think about it this way, that it takes a lot more of all we have to commit suicide, more faith, more courage and even more love... the love for self. In the space where we can detach ourselves for all that reminds us of both here and who we are, suicide is committed.
Slow death and the agony that comes with that are concepts many of us wish never to experience, actually had it not been a definite end, most of us would wish never to experience death.
The reality is that most of us die on a daily basis, commit the slow murders without as much as a thought. We call it protecting ourselves, being careful, learning to forgive and never to forget. The point is that while we despise the people that commit suicide for all the deception they have embraced as truth, we fail to realise that we are equal victims. Theirs drops them to pits unimaginable but ours let us leak into the same pits a litter at a time.
There have been many times when an honest extension of love has been translated into a reminder of pain and hurt. While we have seemed to move on, the bits of ourselves we leave behind and the load we carry have not let us move on. We have merely fooled ourselves to think that we were making progress, that we were free spirits again but in reality, we are the same old hurting self we were when we first hurt. We hold every one in check to prove if they will measure up to our standard of okay and every time they do not, we write them off in the spirit of ‘I don’t care.’ We have become the beings that will need others for a moment and never want to rely on them, we hide ourselves far on the inside that we have stopped to even recognise our very selves.
The shame of the living is to love with the fear of risking our hearts, to be friends without sharing ourselves and to embrace without accepting both ourselves and the ones we embrace. We can all trace the trail of our death, we can all locate when we started dying if we care to find out. The rot of our death can be found in every habit we have created for self defense and not all self defense but the kind that keeps us far from everyone that seeks to get close. And while we deem them weak and cowards that take their lives, we need to realize that we share in that cowardice, all of us that have subjected our living to that death., that suicidal death.
