suicide note
it's common sense that the winter is the season of death, while spring is the season of life. pure mistake. differences lie in the colour and in the temperature. the winter of life, the time when we're old, weathered, waiting miss death's visit with the cold wind or the passing rain. non sense. no one remembers the winter of life, for each and every one of us spent it in our mothers' womb - warm, confortable, safe from an aggressive world, just as we are when we sit by the fireplace watching the orange fire, half asleep, half awake. just as the seeds of life are buried underneath the cold earth, waiting for the right moment to burst free. no, spring does not mean the beginning of life, but rather the growing up, the young years, the discovery. then comes the summer, and we are mature and wise and ready to do anything. and then comes the fall, and we fall with it.
they say that most people commit suicide during the winter. that most people meet death in the winter. makes sense, if we do not want to live again. our bodies might only give away their last breath with the frosts of january. yet our heart has stopped beating long ago, by the end of september, with the first drops of rain.
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