Extracts From The Books I’ll Never Write 0002

Today, I am 100 years old. That’s right. I have lived for a century. I have yet to die. I have wanted to die for a very long time now. I have wanted to die since I was… in my early twenties, I think. Oh yes. I can’t seem to remember the number, but it was definitely sometime around then. It’s been a very long time. So why didn’t I just kill myself, you ask? Why didn’t I just jump in front of a bus or throw myself on the tracks at a tube station? Unfortunately, the chains of religion and family have kept me bound to my miserable life, and because once I read deeply into Durkheimian sociology and how suicide is not an individual act, but rather a social one, and I suppose that left some impression on me. At the end of the day, I remain human. And for whatever reason, survival appears to be our default condition. Not that I haven’t spent a good number of decades thinking about it – you know – the act of slitting one’s wrists open and letting the blood flow and immersing into absolute nothingness; to lose all sense of existence, of thought and of love and loss. I assure you I have. My mind and my heart have been possessed with the thought of it for many hours of many days. But I have a story to tell. And it is this story that has kept me alive for more years than I could care for. I have buried it deep, and then dug it up many times, only to bury it even deeper the next time, and then the time after that, and the next, and so on. The year – 2091. This evening, I have dug it up again. I am sitting here in the warmth of the dark light that envelops my room. I am waiting impatiently for Death to come and collect me. And while I wait, I will tell you this story, a story for which I cared so much as to let it consume my life, to the extent that I had no life at all.


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