Occasionally I Contemplate Murder 11
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he indians treated life much more demandingly than we tend to do. Or did they love it too much to compromise about it?
When the white man needed his cotton to be picked, he naturally first considered the red man for the job. There he was, nearby and in abundance.
Red man, though, was not readily convinced.
White man had no antidote to suicide. Although life can certainly be mastered by worldly powers, death cannot.
When forced to realize this, white man had to bring the black man, all the way from Africa, to do the picking of the cotton.
In another world, this sacrifice of one generation probably would have been rewarded to all the following. Here, it did not.
When white man found no practical use for red man, he simply exterminated him. A glorious death, indeed, and one to stain all white men's consciences forever on.
But still, death.
Will the kind of Jesus find it in his heart to forgive the indians their suicide? I pray that he does. If not, what judgement is white man to expect?
Perish the thought.
Well, I wonder if we do at all inherit the sins of our ancestors. Probably for as long as we enjoy the fruits thereof.
And we do.
Most suicide attempts, experts say, are not altogether sincere in intent. The wish of the one committing it is not to find death, but to bring attention to the circumstances of his life. It's a cry for assistance.
As such, it's also a threat, almost blackmail:
Help me, or next time around I'll do it for real — and then you're to blame!
In spite of this, attempted suicides may become failures in such an ironic way, that they really do lead to death. A suicide that failed to fail.
However sad this mishap may be, it gives a certain relief to those left behind. But it's very rare.
Can it be that women relate to life in more of a closed circuit, more matter-of-factly, than do most members of the opposite sex?
I have the impression that women rarely are as curious about the beyond as men often are. Consequently, if the possibility of an afterlife realm is of little concern to them, such women would see death as more of a threat, a thing of horror. Unlife.
Accordingly, a suitable instrument for blackmail.
But they do believe in it. Death itself is much more real to them than to men. It's the beyond that is not. Death is just one thing — unlife. Not at all attractive.
It could very well have something to do with the experience of pregnancy. Being the very melting pot of new life, it's hard to engage in fancy dreams and visions about unlife.
She always called somebody up, immediately after the drastic step. Although it caused a few hearts to speed up their beats for the rest of the night, she wasn't ever really close to the point of no return.
I think the doctors didn't take her very seriously. They did not even insist on sending her to some kind of therapy. Well, they probably had the experience to tell the difference between her exercises and the real thing.
Still, it did become a strain on her friends. Her phone calls were received with very ambiguous emotions.
She found a man, who made her pregnant.
I guess that starting up another human life made her cease to wish for her own life to end. The baby ignited certain instincts inside her, and she forgot all about suicide. Along with the child arrived some kind of meaning to her life, it seems.
To make sure, she quickly repeated the cure. Today the two children take up all her time and energy. They're good at that.
What will happen when they have reached the age where her assistance is no longer essential to them, I don't know. Yet another?
Or maybe she has come to the conclusion that she never really wanted to die in the first place. Her attempts were solely reactions against life. Death had nothing to do with it.
Still, their action can be just as much directed to the world they leave, as is the action of those who never really plan to leave at all.
They want their death to make such noise that its echo will forever ring in the ears of the poor ones left behind.
For some reason — maybe the inverted case of what goes for female suicidal behavior — this tends to be most popular among men.
Throwing oneself from the roof of an apartment building or in front of a train, or banging one's car into a mountainside, tend to seriously hurt other people entirely, than those who could, by the most farfetched of arguments, be deserving it.
In my modest experience, those who suffered the most tend to be the least inclined to complain. Those who groan the loudest, really seem to be the most privileged.
Pain must have its laws of relativity.
The addict may not always intend to have his excessive use end in death, neither consciously nor subconsciously — but mostly he does.
"Booze slowly kills you — but who's in a hurry?"
If you wish to leave this planet, but are in no immediate hurry, and don't mind terribly — maybe even enjoy — some serious humiliation and bodily decay along the way, then there's most certainly a drug for you.
Whatever the cause for this long and trying route, it does tend to be unto others all that it is to the addict. One might even find it contagious, through the bridge of emotional attachment.
People strangely fond of addicts — and such people exist in at least the same abundance as addicts do — tend to end up sharing also the addiction with them.
A risky business, indeed.
They worked very hard on it, all five of them, for three full years. Or was it three social workers on a five-year project?
Somehow, the difference fails to strike me as all that significant.
Alcohol can be very persuasive, especially to someone with an ear for its kind of music.
When the time span of the project had elapsed, the social workers left to write a book about it.
Soon enough, the drunk killed himself — the fast way.
Never again could he expect to receive the same attention, never again be the center, yes, the very source of income for a number of perfectly well established citizens.
When that spotlight of attention turned away from him, all was darkness.
Lots of people who get to reexperience the carefree existence of early childhood — in such places as prison cells or hospital beds — they wish to remain right there forever.
In kindergarten, taken good care of, with the big world locked out and food being served at regular hours.
Who can blame them?
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I'm a Swedish author of fiction and non-fiction books in both Swedish and English. I'm also an artist, an historian of ideas and a 7 dan Aikikai Shihan aikido instructor. Click the header to read my full bio.