42


I’ve been thinking lately of how I want to kill myself
– because one should have that right –
and who will find my body.
On the last point, at least,
I think I have resolved the conundrum.
It would be better if there was no body to be found.
Although,
while this resolves a series of problems,
it has the unfortunate drawback of limiting my options.
Must I walk into the sea?
Burn in a pit?
Be thrust into space
– this seems the most appealing option, if not entirely feasible –
or simply wander off into the less than infinite waste of Earth’s unshaven bush?
There is romance in nothingness, of course,
and grace to be found
in the unknown
but
such an arduous exertion strikes me as antithetical to the exhausted soul
– a hoary notion, but concise thanks to its familiarity –
whose final act of effort is, in effect, effortless.
If I have to choose
– or get to –
I should like to think that, at least,
I would be afforded the dignity
of selecting the last song.

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