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<--latest post-- like the chicken into the boiling soup--gigs this coming weekend--damn i really hate booking back into camp--next stop--some other day maybe--oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy--it almost worked--live range distractions--a little past his bedtime maybe--sometimes i regret introducing boon to rock music-- --last post--> |
| by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Saturday, December 10, 2005, 5:11:00 AM | permalink |
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The coldness was from more than the predawn winds. From where I stood, looking down from the top level of my block to the opposite one's ground floor, the guy looked like a dead fish - eyes open and rolled back, mouth ajar with tongue dangling limply to one side. The guys cluttering around him scurried about meaninglessly like lemmings, occasionally slapping his cheeks, calling, almost shouting his name, eh wake up wake up can you hear me don't play already its not funny, shaking his lifeless ragdoll limbs vigorously as if to charge the body with energy like a toy. One of them ran an open palm through his own head, the other hand holding a handphone to his ear; his eyes flickered from the wide-eyed unconscious man to the ground back to his unmoving body, the other palm now gripping clumps of hair while his lips articulated inaudibly fast words into the phone. I'm neither jaded nor a sadist but I was sleepless that 1:30am and I look down at the block across and wondered for a moment if all these was just an elaborate if amateurish piece of performance art. And then the landrover arrives and the guys hoisted the human doll into the back of the vehicle and it is evacuated. Through general enquiries from various sources, what I thought was a case of epilepsy turned out to be a full-fledged purpose driven suicide attempt - 10 Panadol pills washed down with a generous serving of beer. Witnesses said before the man was found with his almost fatal concoction he had been loudly crying before becoming eerily silent. But why? Why do it? What can be so bad to compel oneself to take away one's life? What scared me the most was not the chilling feeling of being close to such a life and death tragedy, but the fact that when I first related this incident to others I commented without thinking: He is stupid. Too bad he failed, to survive after this will be worst for him. Is life so worthless and cheap to be regarded so lightly? Didn't I believe that suicide would have reprecussions that stretch far beyond mortal existence? Didn't I believe that inside that corporeal temporary vessel is a precious, unique, ethereal entity? When my subconsciousness said those views, does it reflect what I'll do, if in his shoes? I became him, just hours before, pills in one hand, beer in the other. Would I have done it? |
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recent entries (in order) |
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<--latest post-- like the chicken into the boiling soup--gigs this coming weekend--damn i really hate booking back into camp--next stop--some other day maybe--oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy--it almost worked--live range distractions--a little past his bedtime maybe--sometimes i regret introducing boon to rock music-- --last post--> |
