Memories from the climax scene in the movie 'Sylvia' appeared in my head vividly as I'm writing this.
For so long I couldn't help but wonder, why?
What drives human to be so numb to fear and pain that suicide becomes just another verb?
I have only one answer to that - passion. It takes the same amount of passion to love, for human to commit suicide. They didn't put the word 'commit' for nothing if it does not involve a fair amount of passion in it. Plath, killed herself because she really wanted to. She had really meant to die.
So was this Aunty.
Last Sunday morning, as I was about to have breakfast at the fifth floor of my condo , God decided to give me an experience like never before - a middle aged woman, dead from suicide. There, her body curled to the left, while thickening blood flowed through rails of the tiles. Nobody was around her until only few hours after. At that moment, with the swarming goosebumps on my neck, I learned that the most authentic thing about a human is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and..
..to be greater than our suffering.
But then again still, this isn't a happy story. If you asked me, I am convinced that the thoughts which flipped through her head - whether a month, few hours, or few seconds before she jumped off from the 15th floor - it can't be a happy one. And it's devastating to me just knowing how alone she must have felt then. I bet, every suicide victim wants somebody to pull their hands off that bridge, or window pane, or that balcony, and just save them.
When I saw that body there with nobody around her, I just felt like I had to ran up to my home, get the camera, rush back down and give you this.
All photos are taken by myself during the incident out of ..I don't know what. Those with photo epilepsy, I would recommend you NOT TO BROWSE further.
Just few hours after the incident took place - the bloody area was again spick and span, like nothing controversial happened. I also checked out the newspaper for any glimpse of news anywhere, on this. Nada.
O bla di, o bla da, life goes on.
But my head didn't.
We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.
'The Virgin Suicides' by Jeffrey Eugenides