The Romance of Suicide

She’d always thought about suicide. Maybe for the beauty of it, maybe for the abruptness of it. But whatever her reason she never planned or executed her final exit. It happened accidently, mundane and boring like most deaths. There was no excitement to it, no cliffhanger or drama. Death had cheated her out of her final triumph.

But it was really her own fault. She’d had many times to take commit the act. She never did, only for the excuse of experiences yet to come. She didn’t want to die a virgin, forever chaste. Once she’d had sex she wanted to experience traveling the world with a lover, never knowing where they would end up. Then she wanted to feel drugs coursing through her veins. None of the drugs that would ruin her life or her love, but those that seemed romantic in a way, like molly and mary jane. She wanted to dance in the rain, however cheesy it may seem. It felt like cheating herself if she did not at least experience these things until taking her own life. Once they were out of the way she could begin planning her exit, making it however dramatic and brilliant she wished. No limitations could be put on her then. It would all happen once she just did a few things.

But that’s the thing. Life never ended for her until it ended, not with a bang but with a whisper. Because she kept finding things to amaze and things to inspire. Because that’s just how life works.