The Birth of Suicide

Today is your birthday.
You are alone, naked, tracing the outline of your own image inside the bathroom mirror. Until this moment you have lived thirty one lives, but now you are about to cross the line that separates thirty one from thirty two. Yet you seem unsure whether to take the final step, thus you remain motionless, thinking yourself hollow and devoid of any fruitful thoughts.
It is a moment of painful hesitation.
You recall now how last year you stood before the exact same mirror, panicked and breathless, as thoughts of death invaded your mind. You recall how surprised you were that instead of feeling the weight of such thoughts upon your shoulders, you seemed liberated by the idea of death. You remember how only seconds before arriving to said thoughts, you had begun putting your own body in the crosshair of self-pity (one minute your stomach was the subject of criticism, the next your penis that had turned almost purplish due to excessive masturbation - they both looked ugly). Most terrifying recollection of all, however, is the image of a small mole right above your upper lip that you hadn't noticed until your thirty first birthday. At the time, this made the prospect of death even more alluring, for what was the point of living if you had failed to see even the mole above your lip? How were you supposed to take in all the beautiful things that life had to offer when you were incapable of making the simplest of observations? Nonetheless, despite your desire to free yourself from this ball and chain, suicide seemed to you something that one only read about in the news or saw reports of on TV, a concept physically out of reach yet embedded deep within your mind. What to do, then, when on one hand you want to free yourself from the confusion of living, but on the other hand you long for nothing more than to be recognized by the same universe you tend to despise? You asked yourself this question but found no answer. So you did nothing and lived another year.
Here you are today, asking yourself the same question. You try to reach inside the mirror, searching for something to grab on to. You know that you may have to live another year suspended between fear of death and the yearning for freedom, at the age of thirty two, instead of traversing obstacles and climbing walls like a reliable man your age should. If your other friends have done this, why can't you?
But then you think about the pointlessness of it all and the divorce papers on the nightstand and the messages you have left unanswered and the alcohol you keep buying but can't bring yourself to drink, and you begin to ask yourself a different question: what if I am nothing but a fraud? What if I'm only kidding myself and this whole thing is just an act?
Then you remember that Time cares little about internal affairs and human conflicts. Thus you are depressed again, caught between wanting to remain where you are and envying those who have found a reason to move on.
Or perhaps none of us ever do find a reason. Maybe we just get used to living with the unknown, with not knowing why it is that we keep struggling to survive. When one has a business to run or a family to take care of or a class to teach, asking questions becomes the least of their worries.
You, however, refuse to submit to routines. You refuse to accept the fact that maybe if you just get into the groove of things and commit yourself, you won't feel the need to ask questions.
Here you stand now, stubborn and scared, reaching once again for the razor beside the sink. This time you will take control of life instead of letting it grab you by the throat. If Time doesn't care about your needs and the world has decided to cast you out for wanting something different than what is expected, if life is going to punish you for feeling confused and not knowing whether to run or stand still, then you will end things on your own terms. At least here you will exert some degree of control.
So you pick up the razor and press the side of the blade against your skin. The cold of the steel comforts your soul. You no longer shake uncontrollably. This will be the final decision you will ever have to make.
Suddenly, you hear your phone go off. With a pregnant sigh you put down the razor and take a look at your phone. It is a text message from a good friend of yours, expressing great sadness over the end of his relationship with his long-term romantic partner. The distressed yet seemingly disinterested tone of the message indicates that, as a friend, you should at least send him a sympathetic response or offer to meet up. Therefore you reply, and your text message is answered in less than ten seconds. Turns out the crisis that your friend is going through is much worse than he had previously imagined, for he was the one who caused their relationship to end. Now he feels guilty and to a point even suicidal. In short, he fucked up and needs to see you (if you're free, of course).
So you forget about the razor and rush out the bathroom to get ready.
You leave your phone by the sink, therefore missing the next text message from your friend that says, "Man, I've never felt as lonely as I do now."
And thus you survive, somehow, perhaps due to the obligation you feel toward your friend.
You survive somehow, you survive just another day.
Until the next time you have the time to stand before the mirror.