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The last time I committed suicide was just a few months ago. A return to homelessness was a distinct enough possibility that I tossed out most of my belongings, and I didn’t have much to begin with. A lit soul changes itself after friendly fire.

I threw out all of my audio tapes, mostly homemade mix-tapes of the last 20+ years. I threw away all of my CDs, many that formerly belonged to my dead big sister, Rebecca. I pitched all of my VHS tapes and DVDs, including private footage from the summer of 1997 spent adventuring across Massachusetts and New Hampshire. I had a mostly complete collection of the old Fleishman brothers Superman cartoons, but not anymore. I threw out a number of shirts, and pants. I threw out my ancient crock-pot, which survived several batches of chili and hot toddies going back a full decade. I threw away old papers, old writings and old drawings. I threw away all of my photographs. It’s all in a landfill somewhere, now, my history as I live.

But I believe this to be the darkest of magics from the time before language, the darkest magic short of blood rites, which in our hearts we know as well predate language by long thousands of muddy years.

What was saved from my toll paid could maybe fill a night. But we can’t really escape time. Memories are trinkets enough. These were all only things. All these were only things. These all were only things. Their absolution reveals the universe’s latest punchline, and the universe truly does have such a wonderful sense of humor. Everyone must give it a whirl, and so they shall.

I still get literal stabbing pains from time to time, thinking of what I lost in having to make such a decision, as the universe pulls at me to ceaselessly unearth all-new, all-different measures for me to sacrifice myself. And the rest of the time, I stay as numb as those around me. I know that I would never wish to be V, but I also understand that it is necessary for me to be Byronic. I need to be Baudelaire. I need to be of the mind where it is the experience itself that carries the weight, not baubles, no matter how idealistic and pregnant with meaning. We are beasts of burden in sworn duty to the past, dragging it down behind us. This is the necessary bit to keep us from floating too far and becoming anymore lost. I chain myself to this dying orb with all the rancor of a series of winces. I will eat my wings as I am the shadow holding down everybody around me, this weight of un-being.

And, chained like so, what need have I to reach far, to reach for very much?