i am dead and i am writing back at life.

i just remembered that there is this one last ritual i need to finish before i can be properly dead. the ritual where i exonerate everyone from any blame over my death and tell people that i am choosing to kill myself because the world had become unbearable and life intolerable.
well, do not assume any of that in my case!

my death is actually a disguise. i am actually not going anywhere, i will always lurk here and there, reminding you of the injustice that you have meted out to me, one lifetime after another. and if that is not painful enough, i will hide in your fridge, mix with your milk and stew with your chicken and make such a raucous there that you will flee your home.

what vanity!

while dying, a last shower of words on a sheet of paper. i imagine myself staring at my last written words, knowing that these too i will have to leave behind. there is a fondness associated with writing suicide notes that arises from the finality of the act. i think poets are probably the fondest of these notes, trying to make one last statement to this terribly prosaic world through them. i am a poet. i am fond of my suicide note. i want to be able to read it when i am dead, even if it is the only property i am allowed to carry to the land of the dead.

to be dead without my words is such a nightmare…!s