Chapter 1 ~ December 18, 2009 ~
There are those who believe that the world is no different from a huge playground. Most kids surely think so. They believe they can play all day long, laughing and screaming as hard and freely as they can, or act recklessly without the care of consequence. They embrace every sensation as though anything and everything is possible.
When I was a kid, I believed I could crawl into the world inside my head and live in the image of every thought I had. I had no doubt that my world was a magical place to live in. However, as I grew up, I began to wonder if perhaps all the fun was there solely because my mind created it. I was the one who poisoned my own brain.
What I have just witnessed is far more horrible than I ever thought anything could be. The world is somewhat strange. It doesn’t allow me to make rules of my own based on how I want things to be. In this world, your happiness and survival is based on your personal sacrifices, no matter who you are. I have grown to know this brutal truth.
Here I am, standing rigidly like a carved ice statue under the drizzle of December rain, soaking wet on the concrete rooftop of the thirty-five-story building where I work. I’m still trying to figure out how I got here. The last thing I remember was parking my Ducati in the basement and heading up to the office. Everything after that is blank, but I guess being here is where the universe wants me to be.
I have lost the wings to fly over this beautiful world. Everything seems unworthy. Everything is broken inside, and it cripples my faith. I cannot remain any longer in this world. Nothing is worth anything anymore. The beauty of this world has been stained. And it breaks my heart terribly. It crushes my soul.
If I have to kill myself, which is something I intend to do right now, I must have some solid proof that all the facts are genuine. Assumptions may not be enough to convince me. But as much as I don’t want to see the evidence, eventually I shall have to face the truth.
My solitude is confirmed when the harsh wind blows hard, making the transmitter masts dance on the edge of the roof. A roar bursts from behind the dark clouds, like a whisper from the sky telling me to go away from here.
Why should I not go? I cannot find any reason to stay.
Although my heart keeps pounding and racing, the fear of death has left me. It is my destiny to end this journey right here and right now. I shall kill myself on the spot and then proclaim my reasons to God. I will concede myself to heaven and repent for what I have done.
I will depart from this earth like an arrow. If I were not falling, I might very well be flying. I will be relaxed as I hurtle through the air, comfortable in the grip of unimaginable motion. I will not be intimidated by gravity’s divine suction or by what awaits me down there. Although I have not chosen this fate that I possess, in this last instant of life, I will embrace it.
My arms are by my side, only slightly outrigger. My left leg is bent at the knee, almost casually. My white shirt billows free of my black pants. My black high-tops shine like golden armor.
Anyone who looks at me in this moment will see stoicism, willpower, and a portrait of resignation. But I see myself as something else—something discordant and therefore terrible—free.
Something inside of me rebelled at the thought of doing this. However, as though faced with the inevitability of death, I decide to get on with it as if I were a missile or a spear bent on attaining my own end.
It is a melancholy truth that I pour out this life with sorrow. What should I do about it? I have lost every desire to live. I have lost the motive and cue for passion in this mortal life. All of the passing days are now just like a single breath. If the substance of words is a breath of life, then I have no more life to breathe.
The devils laugh at me every day for hours. With scorns they worship each day, for there will be no tomorrow.
I look up at the sky to feel this solitude, to feel this hatred, to feel my helplessness, and to feel any thrill that I still can. However, there where I glance, my dear love is smiling from above. I will soon walk closer to her.
As cigar smoke gushes from my nose, I let this face feel the last breath of rain. I wish that the sky would stop crying, pretending to pity me. I’m already dead, as I was before I got here.
Will I be forgiven for my sins?
Forgiveness? Is it that easy to wipe out all sins with one-time forgiveness? Will everything be restarted all over again from then on? I really don’t think I deserve such forgiveness. Not for this sin. This is too much to bear, and it seems to me that no one could ever forgive me.
Regret. It will not be easy to regret. What does it mean anyway? What does it mean to regret when I didn’t realize this earlier? What does it mean to regret if I never had a choice to dodge? The door to escape was never there. This is what I was destined to feel, and I shall take my life out from this wound.
A tiny part of my soul is still trying to believe that I still have miles to go and that the journey ahead promises me the chance of full recovery and the total cleansing of this sin. However, the fact is, my belief of pursuing self-purification has become my only demon to beat over the last two weeks. If only I’m allowed to be selfish at this moment, it might be easy for me to bring this journey to its end.
I gasp, out of breath, as my knees tremble on the edge of the roof. I can hear the weary and weak beat of my soul. I spread my arms wide. I will soon be traveling downward at a speed of 150 miles per hour, upside down, and frozen. I will fall and keep on falling until I disappear. This is the place where I set up the everlasting breath that shapes my body from this world-weary flesh.
“This is it.”
Eyes… look your last.
Heart… pump your last.
Lungs… breathe your last.
Arms… touch the winds of grace.
“God, here I come.”