FAMOUS LAST WORDS.

FAMOUS LAST WORDS.

The story of a life spent ill must always be read to the end. Settle the critic, the unfound genius in ourselves and let us sit back and actually enjoy a brilliant life retold.

Anonymous

Let us begin by setting the scene. A wonderful classic guitar was being played in the wind. Its player was a richly compassionate man. Of course no one would believe his actions. And thoughts and ideas and repercussions. He sat lonesome on the bridge. His feet dangling, his voice sore with overuse and his eyes, face and mouth scrunched up waiting for that final tear. "This is life' he would often say. 'Oh what pleasure it gives us to be alive' he would say through his tears. And his broken voice and his scrunched up face all together worked in harmony to show that he had been to a funeral.
He hadn't. Or maybe he had. Or is now? It was hard to say whether this event now to which you are witness to counts as a funeral. Is it? I don't know and I also don't know why I want you to consider it.
Let us begin by setting the scene again. A deeply remorseful man sits on a bridge, playing on his guitar, music he bought from the devil. Above him lie the heavens, vast and mysterious. With its millions of galaxies, billions of light years in depth and gazillion pieces of matter. All so alluring to watch. All that is part of our lifeblood. All that was created just like us. All so connected like a portrait and so easily portrayed.
And this man. This man who means nothing to us sits in front of us in this story of little importance. This man who is about to take his own life. Why should we care if he dies or not? Of what use is he to us? Or to the world? Why would we care to save such a soul?
If I were to pose such a question to him he would reply "your right, you're absolutely right. There are no two ways about it. Go on follow his advice; the devil does not want you to read this story in light. Why should you care about a single person?

Let us set the scene again. There are 6,499,697,060 (nearly seven billion) people on planet earth. 807,289,020 (about eight hundred million) people live in Europe. 60,139,274 people live in the UK. About 50,690,000 live in England. 7,517,700 live in London. 196,106 live in Tower Hamlets, 26,345 in the London city vicinity area right now, 2,567 around the Tower Bridge area, of which 1,281 people are either on the bridge or about to get on or off or are looking at the bridge right now from either bank. 345 people (including those in cars are on the bridge). 7 people have decided to take their own lives, of which 5 have realised that this was not the Suicide Bridge they were looking for and have left and finally two who are at either side of the bridge unaware of each other. One of which is the man we are looking at. So why is it that we focus on this one individual who just before he dies will congratulate the world and leave it by uttering those famous last words: "It's been a pleasure.

What impact could he possibly have on the people who live in Tower Hamlets, London, England, UK, Europe and The world? Does he have a nuclear bomb? That can destroy the world? No. It is more to do with what he is dieing with. A piece of knowledge that impacts all lives on planet Earth regardless of creed or culture, religion or ethnicity, language or disability, colour, physique or level of attractiveness or lack thereof of all of these things. But return to those words, those last famous words. He will thank his left shoulder and his right shoulder for bearing him and then utter tearfully just as a smile is breaking through: "It's been a pleasure

It's what makes him different to every other person on planet earth. Oh why we should help him rid himself of the devils grasp.

It is 7:15 pm GMT. He was born, he knows, at 7:29 GMT. By the time he remembers this it is 7:19, and then suddenly 7:22 pm. Hang on hold up. Not now. Before you go tell us pls. What is it that you hold beneath you that tears you up inside. But already it is 7:24. And then 7:26. He stands up ready. People start to notice him now.
7:28¦7:29. He stands up, fails to smile through his tears and utters "I wish I could say its been a pleasure. I so wish that I can before jumping into the waters below. The water was nearly 19ft in depth though for a non swimmer like our person you only need barely a fifth of that. The water was around 7 degrees Celsius. Cold enough I would say and getting colder as we put forth our hands into the depth of some thing else, into the depth of the dark and murky night.

And now that is done with and we cannot undo what is done, I am to reveal what secret lies in him. And has died with him. And that has without notice changed the future of mankind. At least in this piece of fiction allow me that comfort.

And onwards with the glorious and the fantastic. This was a man who was immensely talented and hugely underrated. Had he lived he would have given the world a great many things. The first, and his least biggest accomplishment, he would have forever more put Tower Hamlets on the map for the world to see. It would welcome tourists from all over the world. And Tower Bridge already famous the world over would settle to be second in fame to the spot where our person died.

He was a genius. And unfound genius. And a look through his notes of which were to be found in later years, all too terribly late, would tell us of his life. In music, here died a person who wrote one song. A single song with powerful lyrics to be known the world over. All who felt such sorrow and depth in his song would immediately acknowledge his genius. And that tune he created. Oh that heavenly tune lost for so many years, such colour, so imaginatively weaved, a thing of beauty so great, composers, the world over pay pilgrimage to his home. And to think he wrote a single song. How much would people have paid just to listen to his voice? The voice of modern day genius? And with little or no musical background to speak of? He was most graciously up there with the greats, Ludvig van Beethoven, Wolfgang Amadé Mozart, Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky and Antonio Lucio Vivaldi amongst others.

And a diary of that great genius was written in so many styles and dialects that the common layman could be forgiven to misunderstand it as nonsense. Here lies an account of a man who knew more then a hundred thousand different words. Here was a man so cunning he played metaphor and simile and poetry in a comical way so as to reduce such things to child's play. It must be said that he was not at the heights of William Shakespeare or Rabindranath Tagore, nor does he have the wit of Francois Marie Arouet (Voltaire), nor can he be compared to Jane Austin's understanding of her society and the women in it and absolutely unquestionably cannot be compared to JRR Tolkien's use of myth and fantasy. He is none of those elite; instead what we have here is the Anne Frank of our generation. Where as she dealt with her war, he deals with his own war, a War so personal, it invites one to reign in the madness of genius. Utterly compelling to read.

Alas that is not the end of it. That is not what drove him to his death. Those were merely his habits and practises on the side. Though his friends and family knew him to have graduated in business, he had actually been an abject failure at this subject. He had secretly pleaded with the dean of his university to allow him to study and graduate in other fields and his talent he proved easily to the dean.

He graduated in medicine, and conducted research in medicine. And what did the world lose upon his death? No not exactly the cure to Cancer or Aids. Debate rages whether he could have done this had he lived on. Instead, he invented an approach so radically different that it defied belief. He invented a microscopic system that meant operations could be done to individual organs or parts that had any defects in them. One could look and separate cancerous cells individually. But this was not the biggest change. Although he says he came upon this by second discovery by chance, he came upon a group of cells found in an unknown species or plant or organism that could change the DNA of growing tumour cells, halting its growth immediately. Such a man did the world lose. Why did such a man kill him self. Why did he kill himself? It is so wrong that it hurts? And then again how evil must this man be to propagate such things if they are indeed lies? How it would hurt those who are suffering and to those who know someone who is suffering?
Some say that he did indeed take this to the multi-corporations and it was they who screwed him over and it is this that drove him to his death.

And yet this man was bigger then all this. Yes the arts are important, music is worthwhile, literacy expands our horizons, and scientific breakthroughs have the ability to change people's lives the world over. Yes to all this but however this man was bigger then all this. Forget Charles Darwin, who said:

'I have called this principle, by which each slight variation, if useful, is preserved,
by the term Natural Selection.'

Forget Sir Isaac Newton and Leonardo, son of (Mes)ser Piero from Vinci, this man whose name you shall never hear of died with a greater secret.

For weeks up to the triumphant discovery it is said that he dealt with the devil. The devil, it is said, made a pact with him. The devil first spoke in his ears upon yet another day's misery at that woeful place of work. And soon it unlocked a door of reality that had been shut afore. At first instance he was frightened to the core. Just like years before when he confronted himself upon whether he believed in god or not. His heart pounded and it made him fearful.

Upon the sixth week, his depression got the better of him. He could avert his gaze no more. He had to work out with his immense ability finally upon the case of God. The devil existed, that was easy enough to see. For the devil spoke to him. It followed him round corners, stood in darkness and once just once jumped out at him. Scaring what little life he had out of him. Thus he decided 'I will have to work out if God exists'. And in his Wiseness proclaimed that the secret he would work out would die with him.

And upon it he worked tirelessly and without sleep. There was another reason he did not sleep. But that is a mystery not to be told here. What concerns us is that he is about to work out once and forever if God exists.

Work lays forgotten. The dirt piles up and delusion sets in. The devil asks him to commit evil for in return it promises great wealth and recognition. Recognition that is immensely overdue. He lay still for many hours staring at nothing. Twitching ever so slightly. And still the devil breathes deeper.

And one day he shouted and raved and fought and screamed: no more. Neighbours heard shouts of 'eureka' and 'if Einstein's right' then 'the empty space isn't empty at all' and 'no he's wrong no generalisations can be made just chaos.' And other rants until finally one child saw him leave for somewhere. And upon his arrival, his long wild beard was seen with his wild and lengthy hair and his shabby vagrant-like appearance was frowned upon. He said laughing out loud. "God is in the detail. God is in the detail. Do you know who said this? It is most likely Ludwig Mies van der Rohe 1886-1969, or at least that is what is widely believed. But today I have worked out a stupendously simple theoretical experiment that proves that god is in the detail. Oh shut up one and all. I cannot shut and will not shut up. God is in the detail. He is in the detail. He is of no material that belongs to this universe. For how can he be of that which is created?
And then one of the crowd asked mocking the madman that he was: "well then how do we know he's there
"It's so simple. You can see him. You can see God
"But you just said he is not made of material
"He isn't. But we can still see what isn't made of anything
"What?
"What is the thing that we are expanding into? That and Space as well. But that means if one could actually see God, God would be brighter then the brightest stars. Brighter then the whitest light. He would and could exist in a vacuum without time or matter. But he could also exist everywhere and at the same time and assume a state of being that has never been created and thus cannot be destroyed. God young sir is in the detail, literally in the detail and it is not that just pantheism is true but that that god will also have the ability to have some deliberate effect on our lives in howsoever way he wants to and the fact that we exist may in actual occurrence give reason to our reason for believing in the good of god
"Oh you f**king lunatic was shouted at him and other such insults were hurled at him. For what they did not understand they hated. And they attacked him, the youth of London did. And whilst beating him to a pulp they recorded him on their mobile phones¦ outside the gates of Tower Hill.

Oh the trouble they caused him. The purple bruises they gave him. And so he was moved by air ambulance to a hospital nearby. One that held the remains of the elephant man in its cellars. And soon after they called him mentally ill. And he stood still not saying anything. Whilst it all finally made sense. The devil¦the illusion of grandeur¦everything¦And it struck him an awful blow.

He hadn't written the greatest song. Emotions just built up in him. He hadn't written the greatest diary. Tears of depression were just repressed inside of him. He didn't have a secret life working on a cure for cancer. Deep inside him, waves broke in his heart. He felt he could cry. He felt miserable. And now he would stop. He scrunched up his face and held on to the single tear awaiting release. And as he breathed out he felt utterly stupid and pathetic. His case of illness was rare but that still meant that perhaps there was something wrong with him from birth or by brain or experiences in life and perhaps the environment. He felt low in that he thought he had worked out a thought experiment that could prove beyond what was currently scientifically sound that God had to exist and did exist. Alas he shed a tear. It was snowing outside. And he stole himself away from the care that was supposed to keep an eye on him. He had monitored his situation and he watched the changing of the guard. He felt miserable and now outside he felt cold. Imagine if he had said those things in public. Imagine if he had given hope to a six year old girl who had cancer. He was a sick individual. He hated himself.

In the world outside, people were rushing by. He reached his home and picked up his guitar whilst also going to the kitchen and turning the gas on. He came outside and then put an envelope on fire inside his letter box. He had read his work and it made sense to him. He hated himself for being so thick. No one needed to know and raise their hopes or anything. In a world full of people he felt alone watching his house burn down. That was what head cases did and thus he fulfilled the role.

Next he went to bridge he had often been told was his birth place. Right on the bridge. And thus he wanted to go back to the start. Before all that happened in his life. In his childhood, with his parents and his latest failure to withhold a girlfriend. He felt miserable and close to tears. But those damn tears rarely come when you want them to and rarely withhold when you plead them to. He felt useless but as some one put a coin into his open guitar box. He said: no thank you. Your kindness will be remembered in other ways. If I must suggest a charity I will suggest you go down the following avenues. One for literacy, one for music, one for causes like cancer research and one more to help people with¦more private problems.
He then wrote this on a piece of paper and pointed towards the heartfelt sign whenever someone happened to do as the first person had done.

And as the night wore on he sang like he had sold his soul to the devil. He was very often close to tears. The songs were almost like prayer. And thus it came to pass that he died an individual. A man of seven billion. He died struggling to smile and uttering: It's been a pleasure.

No one helped him. No one sat and listened. Let us end by setting the scene. A wonderful classic guitar was being played in the wind. Its player was a richly compassionate man. Of course no one would believe his actions. And thoughts and ideas and repercussions. He sat lonesome on the bridge. His feet over a chair dangling, his voice sore with overuse and his eyes, face and mouth scrunched up waiting for that final tear. "This is life' he would often say. 'Oh what pleasure it gives us to be alive' he would say through his tears. And his broken voice and his scrunched up face all together worked in harmony to show that he had been to a funeral.
He hadn't. Or maybe he had. Or is now? It was hard to say whether this event now to which you are witness to counts as a funeral. Is it? I don't know and I also don't know why I want you to consider it.
Let us end by setting the scene again. A deeply remorseful man sits on a bridge, playing on his guitar, music he bought from the devil. Above him lie the heavens, vast and mysterious. With its millions of galaxies, billions of light years in depth and gazillion pieces of matter. All so alluring to watch. All that is part of our lifeblood. All that was created just like us. All so connected like a portrait and so easily portrayed¦.

And he left it all saying those famous last words: It's been a pleasure. God and all.

The END