how often do you feel like being dead? i used to get such pangs once or twice a year, and it was pretty normal to be acquainted with misery this way, i thought. because i took a cup of long black coffee and i felt okay again

every time i hoped that no one would ever see the ugly swells under my eyes, hot and puffy like chicken buns

and these swells were not getting better, and i knew that there are so many bad things out there that could happen to my life but if the life i am living is no longer under my control i feel obliged to hand it back soon.

i never counted, but the gaps between my thinking about death were getting closer everyday

twice a year, thrice a year, once a month

and recently, once a week

the book that i just lost, it says that when you are dead you are going to be asked about your good deeds and evil deeds, and if your evil deeds outweigh a piece of feather, you will have to go to hell But this piece of feather is no ordinary feather, it's heavy so that not many people will have to go to hell, because gods are trying to be kind to us, because kindness is an essential property of gods

and then i thought, this is why people commit suicide. there are less stupid suicide attempters than you thought there were, you know

we just realise earlier that when the day is long and when our misery outweighs that piece of feather, there is no point carrying on. it really is nonexistent.

i feel like one day these gaps will be extremely close to one another, through which a fire ant has to even squeeze its way through, and by the time it can't get through the gap anymore i would have been dead.

when you're dead you can't sleep anymore, i think. the dead are always awake. but being awake never tires them, because they can keep on watching the living, and the living are amusing and foolish and hence fun to watch; a cure to their boredom.

watch me die

what do you call a nightmare that occurs to you during the day? daymare? sounds perfect. anyway, i just had one, would you like to listen

it's nothing unusual, what else could it be? of course it's about death. i dream of my own death, a death that i am deciding for myself. suicide. not by stupid car accident or stupid cancer or stupid tumor and diabetes. suicide, man. suicide. i decide on my own death, i am as free as a man could get.

but, hold on, i am not even young, i am something preceding my youth. i have not enough of life yet, i need more of it. (where are you, gist?) but you never take me seriously, you sniff my swimsuit and say, "you didn't swim." i should've asked you to rub my hair or toenails because they all reek of chlorine. but nevermind. i will never trust people who cannot trust anymore.

anyway, in this dream, or shall i start calling it daymare, i reach for the knife. a regular knife, nothing outshining the sun. my grip steady, firm, no longer intimidated by the still air and sound. watch me, i say, watch.

the tip of the knife, sharp like demon's wit, begins making its way to my left wrist--alas i'm righthanded--slicing the epidermis, and then more flesh, like peeling an apple. i do not feel anything, but the blood is dripping. dripping off the tip of the knife, the pale skin of my wrist, with blood pumped from all over my body to fix the leak. and you watch me with my knife and my blood and my terrible gash. but you don't move.

you people, i scream at you but nothing comes out of my lungs. you are letting me die. this is not how it's supposed to be, not like my usual dreams and reveries. you want me to die. i dream of dying and nobody is trying to stop me. you watch the painful pink and thick red the shade of your mac lipstick and you watch me wither away, die, die, die. my soul ebbs away and you feel good about it.

humanity disappoints me.

everyday i think about death do you know what it feels like to be dead? i feel it everyday, fleeting, drifting in and out of my day

kalau boleh aku bilang aku gila, aku rasa ya. tapi malam ini belum mapan rasanya, untuk menerima semua kejanggalan-kejanggalan umum yang berdebat lebat dalam hatiku. si janggal pertama bilang kalau dia tidak janggal, aku rasa, bagaimana bisa? si janggal kedua mengakui kalau dia janggal, tapi apa janggal yang menyadari bahwa dirinya janggal masih pantas dianggap janggal? lalu janggal ketiga bilang, kalian berdua memang tidak kurang janggal, sebenarnya. tapi janggal bukan berarti istimewa, karena kalau istimewa itu majemuk, bersaudara dan berkawan, maka istimewa itu harus hilang, harus pergi tahtanya. tapi aku, aku si janggal yang bukan hanya tidak kurang janggal, tapi juga tidak kurang istimewa, karena aku anak terakhir, anak yang lahir tanpa direncana, atau penghancur keluarga berencana. (tunggu, kamu tahu kan ke mana arah ceritaku?) begitu janggal yang sebenarnya lahir, janggal-janggal lain harus mau, harus lalu dipanggil normal, mulai hari ini hingga hidup-hidup yang akan mereka hidupi seterusnya.

janggal satu dan janggal dua tidak tahu mau bilang apa; susunan kata yang telah rapi berbaris buat memanjat liang tenggorokan mereka sudah mati satu-satu, dua-dua, perih menguap dibawa angin liar.

bones betrayed

good intentions

imagine how great not having been born at all is

you don't exist

you don't get to bother thinking whether your existence has any significance to this giant-structured world, or whether your existence has always got stuck at a very personal level (in other words, whether your existence does mean a thing if it stands solely on its own)

and you don't get prejudiced at all when you fancy the idea of non-existence (you know what people say nowadays to those who have suicidal thoughts. these people are sane, of course, and it is wrong for us to feel that not having the same portion of sanity is unfair. because life has always been fair, and we are the crazy ones, the wrong ones, and all other people who 'keep calm and lie on' are always right, because they know more than we do: with lies they get away with everything else, with lies they get more access to the truths, of course they do. but we, we who are honestly, downright mad from the very first place, we have no rights over the truths and we are to lead a miserable life forever, and ask ourselves occasionally, 'will these things i've been writing become a self-fulfilling prophecy?' so occasional we forget that the answer is: yes, they will.)

if i got a chance to say something to the dying sperms and infertile eggs i would say, 'you will not be born at all, everything is at peace for you. you're good, we all here are not good.'

if i got a chance to say something to the surviving sperm and fertile egg that are destined to form a god-sent, sublime collision, i would say, 'the most unfortunate moment of your life will be the day you are born'

i might have already been unfortunate, i might have been deemed to be so. i might've been lucky, too, i'm just not in a shape good enough to say, 'life's worth living'. after all, having been born is a very big thing, whether it's good or bad. it might be the biggest thing that could ever happen to you besides death.

when you kill yourself you go back to the root of it all: non-existence. but it's not the same non-existence anymore; it now has been marred, smeared with the filths of all living things and living lies

but that doesn't stop me from thinking, 'i'd rather die than live a life not worth living'

even when i'm in a good shape, i feel miserable too / i won't stop thinking, 'i'd rather die than live a life worth-living that i can't remember after i die'

if there is God, i think He must have hated me so much; otherwise i shouldn't have been born

if there is God, i will apologise for flunking the life He has given me, the life He has hoped me to put to good use.