I’ve been longing for you before I even know you. 

The same picture my mind drifts towards in my subconscious state:

I walk into the door, wearing a blue dress (which varies sometimes) - the apartment is dimly lit - and you cup your hands over my eyes from behind. I let out a smile, and breathe in your atmosphere as our bodies touch. You nudge me forward through the hallway, leading me to some kind of surprise - of course, a surprise. It’s my birthday.

You whisper, “ready?”

You release your hands from my eyes, but I never got round to carving that portion of my imagination. Perhaps, I’m waiting to see what you’d do for me, instead of what I’d imagine or want you to do for me.

It’s a surprise, after all.

Suicide.

So easy to contemplate, so easy to use as an escape.

It’s a paradox, isn’t it? It’s cowardly to run away from life, but it takes courage to completely deny your own existence.

Is it your right, though? Of course, it’s your life. Who else is in a better position to judge the circumstances you’re going through?

Suicide is probably a last resort. When one has completely lost control over his life, the only thing left which he can control is his existence.

A comfortably selfish point of view would assert that suicide shouldn’t be a crime – it’s my life, I take control of it.

And of course, the opposition would bring up the emotional burden of family members, of society, etc. Ethical issues. Morality issues. You get it.

What if he doesn’t have a family? What if he has lost all reason to live? Who is anyone to force reason into his life? What is a justified reason to live, anyway? What, exactly, are we living for? Why should we continue living? Who defines ‘meaning’ in life?

The soft, cooling breeze slides through the window grills and gently sweeps past my face. The monotone buzzing of the CPU has aligned with my breathing rhythm, and my working pulse.

It’s just the beginning.

Like a fresh sheet of paper, it was full of potential.

It could have been drawn on, with effort and an intention and end in mind.
There wasn’t an end. Who was in the right position to define an end, anyway?

It could have been folded, like origami. Detailed, intricate, beautiful. Every fold made to perfection.

It could have been easily crushed, thrown away, forgotten.

It’s just the beginning though - the draft. Everything is written with a pencil. 
But, not everything can be erased.
Not everything should be erased.