I got this idea in my head, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it the other night. It’s morbid, I know, but bear with me. I finally decided to write a suicide letter. No, I do not intend to kill myself or harm myself in any way. I’m too happy to even think of it. The reason why I wanted to write it was to see just what I would have the courage to say if I knew that no one would ever face me again, that all of my communications would cease shortly after the signature. I’m still in the process of writing it and it’s shaping up to be a long letter to the world. Isn’t that what you’d expect of a writer, though?
I know, it seems silly to be thinking of something so bleak, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. It’s one way I clear my emotions, to bleed them out onto paper in odd ways. It seems to have worked for a great many writers, as well, so I know I’m not alone. It’s a fun proposition, let me tell you. There are things surfacing that I never realized that I had in me. Some deep-seated pains from months and years past, feelings of abandonment, resentment, hurt, and anger that I had stoically repressed for the “greater good.”
I think that these emotions were bottled up to spare me the embarrassment of being ruled by passion instead of by reason, the one thing that separates humanity from the rest of the animal world. It was good to bottle them then, and it is good to release them now. It raises the idea that bottling emotions is good, rather than evil, but I still deny that. Bottling up the emotional part of us for an indefinite period of time is hurtful to everyone around us, because what we put in the bottle is what we deprive the world of. Sometimes, however, this is good to bottle for a short period of time to spare others pain and hurt. It’s fascinating.
The entire idea is fascinating. When I’m done writing that letter, I’ll post it on here. Until then, well, trust that I’m still alive and writing.
