![]() ![]() They could not care less about the luxury of happiness. If you have ever believed a depressive wants to be happy, you are wrong. It was so preposterously easy – a single step – versus the pain of being alive. I could stop feeling this way simply by taking another step. ![]() "Don't chicken out." I made it to the edge of the cliff. I walked, counting my steps, then losing count, my mind all over the place. While my girlfriend was in the villa, oblivious, thinking that I had just needed some air. I simply did not – could not – feel like this a second longer. It didn't matter if it was society or science's fault. I had been okay and now, suddenly, I wasn't. This wasn't reading Borges or listening to Captain Beefheart or smoking a pipe or hallucinating a giant Mars bar. That a fearful, repressive society brands anyone different as ill. The idea that madness should be allowed to be madness. And yet, the most beautiful view in the world could not stop me from wanting to kill myself.Ī little over a year before, I had read a lot of Michel Foucault for my MA. It fit almost everyone's definition of beautiful. A sparkling Mediterranean, looking like a turquoise tablecloth scattered with tiny diamonds, fringed by a dramatic coastline of limestone cliffs and small, near-white forbidden beaches. ![]() In front of me, the most glorious view I had ever seen. I wanted, more than anything, to be that lizard. They just get on with it, however harsh and inhospitable the landscape. You take off their tail and another grows back. The thing with lizards is that they don't kill themselves. ![]()
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