“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” - The Bell Jay by Sylvia Plath.
In the year 1928 Ernest Hemingway’s father killed himself using a very old Civil War pistol, as did his father before him. In the year 1961 Ernest Hemingway killed himself using his most cherished shotgun. Two of Hemingway’s brothers and sisters committed suicide. Hunter S. Thompson, John Berryman, Richard Brautigan, Liam Rector, Francis Adams, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to list the names of authors and poets who have killed themselves.
The list is endless.
What surprises me is how many of these suicidal authors are female. A woman knows how to kill herself with style. She fuckin’ sticks her head in the oven or knocks back a full glass of vodka, puts on her favorite fur coat and starts the car in the garage (both of those being true - Sylvia Plath, 30, and Anne Sexton, 45.) Virginia Woolf drown herself by putting on an overcoat and filling the pockets with stones before walking into a river.
Do you have any idea how gangster that is because drowning is one of the most violent/painful ways to die. Your body completely freaks out and maybe women can handle that better because their minds have been freaking out their entire lives - so it isn’t any biggie for their lungs and heart to follow suit. A woman can handle a heavy drowning just as easily as whipping up a batch of cookies. Men are emotionally shallow and more times than not take the easy way out with a bullet. We’re very rational and want the pain to be almost nonexistent.
Who wants to feel as if your lungs are trying to suck oxygen out of your toes? Women.
The point is a very strong relationship exist between suicide and writers. Self-destruction breathes in all different forms of creativity, but there’s no denying the ones who paint, play musical instruments or group words together love nothing more than an early exit from this page. It’s easier for an artist to believe this can’t be all there is and if so than it’s not even worth it.
We’re blue.
I’m blue. That’s my color. Today in my Human Relations course I discovered I’m the only blue colored personality in the class. We were tested and then isolated by our colors. The majority of the class were power-hungry greens and yellows while I stood alone as the only blue dick in the room. I was told I’m romantic, genuine and sincere, yearn for a deep sense of peace and don’t enjoy having my feathers ruffled. I live from the heart, very rigid in my overly-emotional ways and dislike any kind of attention. I can be very manipulative, but in a very subtle way. I appear to be confident and self-controlled, but hide my vulnerability. I love things from my past. When told I cry easily at sad movies and prone to self-pity, I could only smile at the disappointed eyes from others.
Greens want nothing more than to talk about themselves and view me as weak.
When asked who would be president the answer was green. I didn’t need to hear anymore about my personality color because I already knew and so did the professor because he made the comment of already knowing my color before we took the test.
The professor is a green.
The point of the exercise was for him to approve or reject our final project themes based on our personalities. I of course chose writing over everything else and he approved. After all the blue colored personality disgust from others, I made the comment “If I don’t kill myself first” and he only smiled in return.
