In Continuum.

Dying Thoughts

"...Did it matter then,she asked herself,walking toward Bond Street, did it matter than she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?...

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages.

It is possible to die. Laura thinks, suddenly, of how she - how anyone - can make a choice like that. It is a recklesss, vertiginous thought, slightly disembodied - it announces itself from a distant radio station. She could decide to die. It is an abstract, shimmering notion, not particularly morbid..."

Dying thoughts,suicidal thoughts spunned,and that does not necessarily mean that i am on the verge of doing such things.It was,merely,the thought of the act,an act such as that,the chances of dying,the possibility to die.

Do we choose to die?Do we have a choice,in a life changing thing,literally?It is the witnessing,of the vulnerability of human lives,under the hands of fate,by accident or by our own thoughts and hands,the fragility of it dying like withering flowers,dying roses with time.God,why the hell am i speaking like Virginia Woolf and Michael Cunningham combined now.

I am trying to shake the impact of the book "The Hours" off my head right now.Ive finally gotten my hands on the book,by the way,in case it was never mentioned in the previous entries.I read through the book in a matter of hours,despite the dreadful turnout that occured on Tuesday morning.But anyway,it was awesome book,astounding,an utterly invigorating reading experience to me.I sort of made me think about the possibilities to live,the possibilities to die,choices we can make to deter one from another.Choices,just choices we make.To swallow,or not.To jump,or not.To cut,or not.To die,or not.It is a fifty-fifty chance,are we willing to take the risk,or not.

Reading a book inspired by a brilliant novelist who killed herself by putting a rock in her coat's pocket,and walking into a running stream can make you feel a tad bit suicidal and morbid altogether.Afterall,the book,even till the end,isnt the most cheerful book in the history of literature.Let's face it,despite the little light at the end of the long dark tunnel you still feel cold and weak at the very end,exhausted by the sheer power of words,the beauty of the novel,how awe struck you are,and at the thoughts that swirled in your mind afterwards,the thoughts of death,and dying from it.

Perhaps the thought of the vulnerability of life was further enhanced by the sight of Justin's right index finger,or what's left of it.Before book out today,at the end of the corridor admiring the sunset,was myself and Jonathan.You wouldnt expect two guys like us to do such a thing,but as we were doing such a strange thing together Justin rushed passed below us,with what i thought was a red object in his hands.He was rushing to the Medical Centre,and it was then that i realised that it wasnt some tool or 'thing' he was holding in his hands,but blood pouring out of his gaping wound.

Apparently,while breaking tracks of the vehicle,a ten-pound hammer found its way to his right index finger,crushing the bones and the fingernail,turning what's left of his index finger into a unrecognisable pulp.I didnt see it myself,just thought sight of bloody dripping out of his bandaged wound.The bandage was like tissue over a tap,both useless and pointless at stopping the flow.The book,i urged Justin to sign before heading off to the hospital,was drenched here and there with spots of his blood and sweat,and in my hands the bloody pen that he held to sign the book with.

It was then,right after then,that i realise how easily a person can be hurt,can be damaged,can be killed.Was it totally accidental,that the sledge hammer fell on his finger,then?Or was it,in a way,voluntary?It was a matter of choice,wasnt it?To come in the way of the sledge hammer,to take your hands away.It is,after all,possible to die.

I remember,as a kid,sitting next to my sister in the livingroom speaking about the topic of death.It was a harmless conversation,after seeing the view from the edge of the balcony,with the swimming pool the size no bigger than my own palm,wondering how it would be like to be falling down,just falling,towards the pools,towards death.

It was an unusual topic i must admit,but we did so on that strange afternoon after lunch and the television still blaring bullshit.We talked about suicide,and the best ways to kill yourself without any pain.She initially suggested taking pills,putting yourself into a deep sleep and never waking up ever again.I told her afterwards,that the possibility of that happening is pretty low,and if that fails you'd puke all over the place and get a tube stuffed down your stomach.Not exactly the prettiest way to die,in my opinion.

I thought about the possibility of a pistol,a gun.How the bullet can burst through my brain,in the split of a second,without me feeling the pain,before it registers.That blinding moment before the brain registers pain,and you'd be in Heaven(or Hell)in no time.Like waking up from a nightmare,a dream.You find yourself,instead of being on the verge of impending doom,you are actually safe and sound somewhere,somewhere comfortable.That thought,too,was dismissed due to the avaliability of guns in Singapore.

Next was the thought of gas.She thought of feeling the house with gas from the stove,and before you know it,you'd be sprawled on the floor with your mind wandering halfway to the steps of Heaven itself.But the possibility of that happening is beyond possible.I mean,how is it possible,really,to seal all the gaps in the house?However determined you are to die,it is virtually impossible to seal everything.Everything.I suggested a car instead,with a tube linked from the exhaust pipe to the inside of the car through the front window,the windows and everything else sealed with tape.At least the area is much smaller,easier to manage than a house at least.Moreover,Carbon Monoxide is odourless,and therefore you wouldnt even feel a thing before you die.

A painless death,perfect.It is possible then,to die.It is really,that easy.

But then,despite figuring out the way to die,there is always the fear of death itself,that death is the absolution of everything around you.They end,and you diminish,disappear.The need to want more,to need more,despite knowing the path before us might be wet,cold and inevitably dark.We always want more than we have,dont we?The most modest of humans,even them,would want to have more,a little bit more,of everything in life.Dont we all crave,for the excess of things,to have the most of everything,the simplest of them?

How is it,then,death is a possibility now?Do we still consider it as an option,with the desire and craving for more,despite the darkest of hours?The hours,and the hours,and the hours after the hours,one after another,pouring in like tides on the day,one by one,endless and seamless.Do we resent it,or do we find it consoling?Is death,now,really a possibility?

"...Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the verist frumps, the most dejected of miseries sittig on door steps (drink their downfall) do the same; cant be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudges; in the bellow and the uproar, the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swining; brass hands; barrel organs; in the triumph the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June..."

--- "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf


"...Yes,Clarissa thinks, it's time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep - it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem. against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more..."

---"The Hours" by Michael Cunningham