Centi

Robert Wiles

Life is hard. It's strange; beautiful. For some it is too long - for others, not long enough.

It is a thing worth dying for.

I spoke with a friend tonight about some serious subjects. Of love and loss, madness and cruelty. Of life and death and agency; of suicide.

At the moment of a suicide one exists as both the perpetrator and victim of a murder. It's the ultimate act of escapism. A decision with a grave finality; for the suicide. For the friends and family of the deceased it is a decision with a more enduring gravity. My Grandfather committed suicide when I was in third-grade. It was my first experience with the death of a loved one. I remember trying to wrap my head around the idea that someone could go away and never return. I remember thinking it was unfair. It was years later that I pieced together the circumstances of his death and realized he had killed himself. I can't imagine the pain and loneliness he must have felt. Perhaps it wasn't pain at all. Maybe it was numbness. A sense of futility; the desire to stop marching on.

It's an interesting question, philosophically. Does someone have a right to commit suicide? Does your freedom of will grant you the choice to opt out of life whenever you choose? Is doing so selfish? Is it more selfish than those around you who would wish for you to live in misery so they don't have to feel the pain of your death? Why is talking about it taboo? All of us are going to die, right? Why is it wrong to want it to be on your terms? Part of me though, feels it is irresponsible. No one exists as a separate entity. To suggest otherwise is a denial: we are all composites. We are influenced by those around us, and exert influence outwards back on them. You're your pet that died when you were young, something meaningful a teacher once said, a trophy you won in high-school, the first album you ever bought, the first person you ever loved, your first real friend, your most bitter enemy. Your actions affect everyone close to you, and everyone close to them, and everyone close to them. To murder yourself then is to murder part of them.

Ok enough rumination on suicide, sheesh. I've been talking with a local artist who I've commissioned to do a piece for me. I'm excited; she does some beautiful work. Speaking of beauty, I heard someone somewhere speaking about it the other day - describing the moment of apprehending beauty. They said "Beauty is something that makes you keenly aware of existence. Not just your own existence, but that anything at all exists. You can feel time moving when you experience something beautiful - you can feel yourself moving away from the moment before it and you feel there will soon be a time when you are no longer experiencing it." I think it's a pretty solid definition. There's something unique to the affect beauty has on its beholder. It communicates a connectedness. It's briefly able to clear away difference and inspire awe. There's the sense that at least for a minute, everything is okay. It begs you to simply be.

It is life...and it is death.