firsts

thirteen

There had been only one suicide this month. This is an improvement.

With an average of two per month, this is a clear indication worthy of a celebration. You might cock your head to one side, not thinking or feeling the same way that I do right now, but for me, who had been living in the same place for years, and witnessing at least twenty-four deaths per year, it is something. I wondered if this is what doctors, researchers or whoever in that field of study would say when they had made progress in some medicine. Perhaps it is not so, but it is the image that I have in my mind. I had never visited the doctors. I could be way off the mark.

For some reason, at a 2.45, I was on top of the infamous rooftop- the death spot with not a speck of blood. People die here, but no one could really have told that unless they had witnessed the fall themselves. Of course, that meant everyone around. If they were rich enough to move, they would have done so already.

If you want to ask the reason of why I am, nonchalantly walking up the steps, edging towards the borders, if I may be cliche, of life and death, then I would as nonchalantly tell you that it is of no reason. What is the point of reasons anyways? Are they going to revive the dead? Would figuring out the problem to the suicidal 'solution' change any bloody thing? Sometimes I wish the newspaper would print something other than the supposed reasons. Like if that person had loved daisies. Eggs sunny side up or scrambled. How they learned to smile, how they learned to walk, how they learned to fall... For their last memories to so be grave and sad, so fucking bitter seems so unfair, for the dead and for the living.

But to relieve your worries, if I may assume that you had any, is not to jump. Whether that sounds convincing or not, or whether I am bothered to convince you or not does not matter at the moment. There's a tingling sense of deja vu, but I cannot quite identify it. Perhaps I came here to the same spot, stood in the same way, with the same expressions before. Does that matter? I suppose not. But since there is, it must because I have climbed up here once or twice. Or more. But I know that the reason I am here is not different from the rest. And in my head, there are questions of 'why', of reasons, of the problems to permanent solutions. As much as I despise them, they are still in my head. Thinking of the reasons does not change anything. But I stood up there simply to feel, to sympathise, to pay homage. It doesn't amount to anything... yet it feels right. From here I could see the makeshift garden in front of my apartment. And I feel complete.