silence dohood

Any damage to the brain is unreliable at best. Brain damage results in that vegetative state. The bullet is flexible and the brain is resilient; you will end up as often as not a faceless, motionless wretch, trapped in a body that no longer moves, hearing and feeling a world you cannot touch, taste or see.

The heart is less resilient. Major disruption to the vena cavae, the ventricles, or the arteries will stop the body’s ability to maintain necessary pressure. A fountain of blood will burst forth from the chest, staining the space around the body like so much rust; a temporary and tragic testament to a waste of lead and life and the love of those around. And do you know where the heart is? Most people don’t; it’s more central than the usual expectations. A bullet through the upper part of the lung is very survivable indeed. You might breathe funny and destroy your ability to move your arm, and live again, a more miserable existence than that in which you find yourself at present.

Here’s the real hell of it: depression and frustration and hatred are
mechanisms to prevent activity in a different world than that in which we live now. It is best to sleep long hours and move little when the nights are long and the days are short and the food is scarce, during the dark European winter. But the adaptation is no longer relevant now when we are expected to move about, when we can shut ourselves inside and make an artificial night.

We must instead play a different trick on the wicked and limited body and brain. We must convince it that we are heir to the greatness of our ancestors, that we are still the mighty hunter on the plains of Africa. We must run - a block or two at first, and damn the opinions of the onlookers. We must gradually run further until our breath comes in ragged gasps and the sweat of our back runs down the crack of our ass, and we must learn to love the fire in our lungs and muscles.

Because, you see, your fear and sadness are lies. Your empty threat of harm to others is as well. Suicide promises a respite, an early exit that must be reached in a few short years in any case. This promise might be great, or it might not; but you can take advantage of death at any later time, and cannot reverse the decision to die once you’ve acted upon it.

So live, and run, and learn things and win meaningful victories. I will be truly amazed if doing this does not erase your urge to die.