It’s 1:42 am, I’m done writing.
There is line that has continued to run through my head:
I can’t help but pull the earth around me to make my bed.
Usually when I think about suicide, I think of grotesque things. My guts laying on the ground, how my lifeless body will release it’s last fecal matter a little while later, my burial, and how meaningless it will all be. There are times, like many suicidal people, I do idealize it–imagining the pain that people around me would experience (or lack thereof), the easier things would be, and the beauty in dying in general, especially on your own terms. I think of the earth. Returning to the earth. That a true suicide for me could only succeed in nature, by nature, through nature. Any of my past attempts were moments of desperation. I should say, Reader, that I can’t imagine attempting suicide anytime in my present state and life circumstance, let’s make that clear.
I think that’s why I feel so at home outdoors, especially when in solitude. I remember once last year, I would often go sit by the trees in a graveyard, or on a pavilion by the wetlands near my school. I’d get the feeling I shouldn’t be left alone there, for whatever reason I couldn’t grasp until thinking about it tonight. I Here’s something I wrote a while back, when I was looking back at pictures from my Wyoming backpacking trip.
can you be homesick for something that wasn’t home? Or maybe it was home–if home is where the heart is, if home is the place where you belong, if home is the place where we came from and where we will return. is home whenever you were together? is home a place or is home a feeling? must a home have love, and if love is described as beauty all around, then wasn’t it home?
Yes, I felt home because I knew that’s where I had come from, and that’s where I will return, and that’s how I shall return. Maybe I felt I shouldn’t be alone because I knew I was close to death, but at the same time it was okay because I also was very close to life–the origin of mine, that is. It’s an indescribable sensation to feel so close to both life and death that so many people (like Florence) have attempted to describe better than I can. How can any of us attempt to explain that home? It is not housing in a house or tied to other people. A place of the placeless, a trace of the traceless.
I remember washing my feet in rivers in Wyoming, and there is something deeply spiritual and symbolic about washing your feet in a magical place that feels like your home. I would sing other Florence lyrics like hymns, such as:
Lay me down
Let the only sound
Be the overflow
Pockets full of stones
I can’t help but feel the need to pull the earth around me and bury myself in it, even though I don’t, even though I wish to be laid down gently into the river and with no intentions of rescue.
Maybe the appearance of that line in my head is a call that I need to go outdoors, even though it’s freezing cold out. I feel a desire to get naked and lie in the melting snow, and cry. I won’t let myself die, I think. I have no intentions of dying. I only want to be alone, close to the potential of death but even closer to life. The genius John Milton wrote, after all, that “solitude sometimes is best society.”