My Suicide Note

My suicide note contains no thank you note on its eventuality. Once I had calligraphed a poetic piece about the eternal beauty of sucide and the aesthetics of that so much loathed foe by the Abrahamic religions.

Uttering of all those who had pinched the candlelight of their lives in brutal and others in tranquil ways by the utilisation of drug overdose. But never would I ever fathom that one day I would be scribbling my own and letting my pre-suicide expressions be texted out.

Kalahari tears and expelled emotions when I wrote this. I wrote this letter to whomever it may concern or otherwise. Especially the innocent newly born ones who are earnest into entering this heated dungeon with forgotten memories of how hot can it get on this dimension. Pity they can’t read nor comprehend language.

Every artist is clinging on this life thing by surviving as phantoms hibernating in minds of their art consumers because art, just like writing is a form of attaining immortality. Anyway they might opt on assisting their selves with logging out and retiring early when they can still can. The afterlife journey needs muttering legs too because you have to walk towards your karma’s abode.

Nothing really matters in this life because all work fall prey to demise over time – because both time and work are illusions and sooner we become disillusioned when they become transparent. The feeble philosophical concepts that I had conveyed in self-published books will prolong the thought of me once I had metamorphosized into worms that roam the underworld about.

I am not leaving to anywhere – my life will be sustained by the silent worms and the irritating tiny creatures that will emanate out of my flesh and carry on the existence. If you hate being a worm then you detest your inevitable outcome or fate. Mine will spread out and scatter. Disperse and multiply. Perhaps my worms will mate with yours my lover and that will be the status of our love-life after death. So my suicide is a mere catalyst of the inevitable.

There’s nothing morally at fault with practising euthanasia to oneself especially when one is emotionally terminal sick. I leave no offspring behind because my sperm-worms were too obese to run into the ovum and turned impotent on the fallopian-tube way like some of the Israeli casualties who went to the world of promise from the mighty Egypt. I guess they prefer to defunct with me and not prolong their current manifestation through reproduction.

I am never like those petty imbeciles who commit the sacred suicide only when they’re wrestling with life’s muscular predicaments. Mine is when I am at my utmost apex blissful state. Die happy and forever be happy is my philosophy. Like I said; one can only exit the party when his legs are still phallic and pillar. Enough with that trash sayings.

I want to thank nobody in my life because things happened the way they did because there was no any other option available and they wouldn’t have happened otherwise. Not that I believe in predetermined life and destiny or even freewill itself. Situations erupts out of nowhere and leads to nowhere – even your emotional and mental will is not entirely your makings but rather are spontaneously conceived by you.

So the destiny is not certain and so is the free will. The ever unmistaking nature is not certain about itself. On that note I thank nobody for my life as a miserable human being, whatever had occured in it and holds no grudges to whoever tried to add a bitter ingredient in it. I thank not to my tutors of nirvana. My nirvana experience was whole bodily ticklish and like an eruption of sensations and sweet feelings.

On that state I used to feel some perpetual joy amalgamated in peace and inspiration on gazing at life with a rare microscope. My nirvana lead to my death – with no arising fear whatsoever. The gun that coughed a sick bullet on me solidified my approach to death that it has not to be feared. You only fear death when it’s not happening but the moment in which the potentiality of it to take place arrives you become so confused and trying to grasp and ponder on what is happening.

That, fortunately buys you time and soon you distinguish it – you are dead already. That’s how a mind is bluffed and tricked. I was dead. There I saw Frida screaming “Fat one!” to my lagging flesh hologram and her unibrow told me right away that I am home. The selfie self-portraits, the long embroidered skirts that flown about together with their spectrum colours and the small monkey on her back. The stitches were a lined collage and I exhibited my art also; the art on my what used to be a body. She spoke in the language incompressible but the interaction was sustained. My momentarily reverie. Imaginations so inconsequential.

Every initial knowledge of something is always false so you might see suicide as ugly only to later realise its essence of emancipation.

The wrong on my part is trying to liberate spiritual prisoners because that act on its own is a cell block. Unbeknownst; driven by spiritual ego and a quater of narcissism. Holier than thou and thee. An ample of heartbreaks here and there preceding self-critisim, but not being able to maneuver around the relapse like a smoker who preaches his ultimate ending to his smoking bad habit but being defeated by an overwhelming urge. Nobody seems to be having a capability of curbing their selves.

She came to visit me during rain season in the Namaqualand and we had a blood brawl. Word punches beat-spat blood out of our mental nostrils. The violence side of love and relationships. Love is bipolar. That side is totally asymmetric to the complete bliss one feels when the heat of lust burns the heart of testicles and a clit. The bag-seed is the alpha of it all.

She asked me if I still love her and I responded; It’s not a choice to love someone but it’s a choice to hate because hate is not natural so it can’t happen instinctively. What you are suppose to ask is whether I began to hate you or what. She looked disappointed with her pretty oval face vibrating rhythmically. She went to the corner of the door to go weep. She only cried when she was furious and never when troubled. When she was sad she would be sleepy and lame. She was wired differently with live and neutral attached.

I picked up a book about animals that could talk and swines ruling the sovereign farm. The same question that Zizek liked to ask of how can an ideal state be attained post revolution dealt severely with me and it prevailed. Osho also lacked answers – what a shame.

A man who sees stupidity is a wise man whereas a man who sees wisdom is an idiot because it takes wisdom to see idiocy and it takes a stupid man to come to wisdom’s realisation. Wisdom is one – so there can’t never be new wisdom to a wise man, but only new knowledge which he ultimately become disillusioned of; because he is wise and wisdom prevails knowledge.

She cried and cried.

What is concealed to our realisation is the heat of when we think we’re encompassed by love and that is negatively addictive for we are habitual beings. It is our fix because we are ever disjointed internally. People believe themselves to be icy cold and shivering, lonely and in need of some human heat that can conversate and share.

The heat we seek for; not seldomly but constantly – that emerges through embraces, sweaty sex and the held idea of being in love. When that idea collapse – so cold the partner becomes. So distant and inappropriate the partner remains and that constitute to hate.

We are addicted to that heat; of mother’s arms when projecting a child high and how we get accustomed to it. When any other unknown heat is touched to a child he cries – he wants that which he knows. He has to know first that heat. We get hooked on something we can self-generate. We long for it when nuns and monks denies it to transcends it.

The question is whether that heat is natural or meant only for during procreation and a need of belonging to someone or something? If it is supposed to be enjoyed momentarily then why does our greed prolong it? The heat disguised as passion, as a relationship and it is it that glues sorry couples together. We light each other’s fires and causes inferno or arson sometimes.

I am Ramasa Mojolwane on Facebook

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