by Ivan de Monbrison
I should have died much sooner, right after Dad died. I should have killed myself very quickly, without even taking the time to think about it too much, because afterwards you hesitate, you procrastinate, and it’s already over for good. But my first real suicidal urge only came to me a few years later, around nineteen, after my first therapy session (there were only two of them in the end, if my memory is good, then I gave it up for good, maybe I shouldn’t). In retrospect, I would have liked, among other things, to have learned to play a musical instrument, one of those you can take with you wherever you go. I would have liked to know all the complexities of chess too, to make myself look smart somehow. In fact, quite simply, I would have liked to have a job, any job, a simple one, like a house painter, for instance; once I’d found this job, I could have started a family like everyone else, like all the others, the real normal human beings. If I had to start my life all over again, I think I would have changed everything completely, but I went astray right from the start, like an idiot. I literally told myself fairy tales in order to give myself a valid reason to exist, a reason to survive my own self. Now, Mom is dead. I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to commit suicide, as I missed the opportunity to do so on the first time . . . Oh well, we’ll see, it doesn’t really matter, after all.