My Suicide

A satirical piece on indefinable ideas, the nature of modern intellectualism, the importance of definitions, and the wonders of everyday life.

My Suicide

By Sam Lieberman

A wind rolled across the cliff sides, and flowed through the hair of a rakishly dressed gentleman like a comb. At least, I would hope that’s the impression a viewer would get, although it would be just like one to instead notice the brown spot on my otherwise immaculately black shoes that just wouldn't scrub off. But the ideal viewer, although not perhaps, the typical, would at this point, be overcome with emotion for the beautiful soul that was about to throw itself off the cliff side.

            Of course, I’m well aware that it is far more fashionable to throw one’s self off a skyscraper. But I was drawn to the idea of falling alone, in the untamed wilderness. I’m sure there’s some great poignancy to it, but I’m doing my best not to think of it, for if I do, I will be compelled, by force of habit, to write it down in my notebook. Such an act would be an exercise in futility, since I am about to kill myself and no one would ever read my notebook, so I make my best effort to push the idea out of my mind. This annoying habit of jotting down every thought was given to me by my mother, who had the idea that creativity is plentiful in youth, but will eventually run dry, so I had better write down all my ideas whilst they lasted, lest I be out of material to write about when I become older. I have not yet experienced this exodus of creativity, and seeing as how I will jump soon, I probably never will, but the habit sticks with me nonetheless.

Regardless, I have a task at hand, and so I step forward, letting my foot teeter on the edge of my sustaining platform. I rock back and forth, waiting for the sudden bursting of emotion, the feeling that will produce tears to fall with me as I drop like an eagle. But nothing comes, except for the nagging of my thoughts on poignancy that keep trying to make me think about it. But I won’t, on that I stand adamant. I won’t think of the poignancy, and I certainly won’t sit down and write, when I’m supposed to be busying myself with the task of suicide. You see, that’s the trouble with suicide, it’s almost as bad as spring cleaning. Just when you've made up your mind, and are ready to clean, or die, something new emerges and you can’t focus.

            And I certainly need all the focus I can gather, for this isn't just a suicide. It’s a grand suicide, one that will be filled with the aforementioned grandeur. But I certainly can’t be overcome with grandeur if I’m thinking about poignancy, for the two are very different things, and should not be confused with one another. Just the other day, I was listening to the symphony of a bass dominated orchestra. And as I was enjoying to the grand music that was being played, a pretentious looking fellow leaned over, and in an obvious attempt to make him sound learned in the studies of music, whispered to me, “Now isn’t that just poignant?” “No!” I shouted back, rather louder than his initial whisper. “It’s not poignant, it’s grand!” While my outburst did initially gather some disapproving looks from my fellow listeners, I’m sure that many of them, as they went along their day, looked at the world with new eyes, and perhaps were just a little bit smarter, knowing that there is a difference between poignant and grand.

            Of course, all this talk of grandeur and definitions does beg the difficult question, will my suicide be grand if no one is there to see it? Of course, I won’t be there to see it because I will be dead, and so perhaps it won’t be so grand, seeing as there will be no one to exclaim, “How grand!” It’s almost like the age old question: “If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, does it make a sound?” except my question is actually the question that the latter means to be, although it is not. The question of the tree falling actually has an anticlimactic, but correct response, “What’s your definition of sound?”

This lack of definition annoys me just as much as it did Socrates, and it is characteristic of all the stupid questions that attempt to sound profound. Just know that whenever someone poses a question that is reliant on a definition, but gives none, either they are a manipulator, or a fool, or both. Fools do make the best manipulators, for they are hardly ever sure of what their question means themselves, and so can easily confuse the poor listener.

            But as I was saying, before I was interrupted by my own thoughts, my question is different from the simple missing definition question. We all know what I mean by grandeur, although none of us can actually vocalize it. This inability to define the most important ideals is a source for frustration among writers, and perhaps that is why I must commit suicide, for I wish to write about justice and love, but I never can. The best I’ve done is writing about things which are like justice and love, which makes me feel quite useless. After all, if you asked a butcher for a steak, and he gave you something like a steak, he would be a poor butcher indeed and you certainly wouldn’t shop from him again. But one cannot refuse to shop from a thinker, for all I have to do is say what I think, at any public gathering and I will have completed the transaction and proved my superiority to the deviant butcher. In fact, many intellectuals are good at proving their superiority, the trick, I’ve noticed, is to talk as long and confusingly as you can without actually saying anything, for saying things of substance is quite out of style.

            But perhaps saying anything is superfluous to existence of grandeur, after all if one does a just act, it is still just, even if no one is there to see it. So perhaps my suicide will be grand, if I can just forget about the poignancy. But I can’t, and although I try twice more to teeter on the edge of the cliff side and break open the well of emotion that must come bubbling to my eyes, all I can think about is poignancy and spring cleaning which I have been meaning to do for some time now. So perhaps all this suicide is just another way to avoid spring cleaning after all, which I really must be doing. I try one more time to teeter, and this time I really teeter and almost fall off, which would be ridiculous as I haven’t yet been able to summon any grandeur for this moment, not even a little, and everyone knows that a suicide without grandeur is hardly a suicide at all. It’s just death, which is a dreary act, and one that I would like to avoid, thank you very much.

And so, after waving my arms frantically in an attempt to right myself, a spectacle that the ideal observer would not observe, I give up on suicide. Before leaving, I scratch the roman numeral seven on a nearby rock, for it is always good to keep track of one’s suicide attempts. Then, with a tip of my rakish hat and a nod at the poignantly placed rising sun, I set off back home to do my spring cleaning.