I just watched a documentary about Hunter S. Thompson, ending with the scene in which Johnny Depp blasts Hunter’s ashes from the canon over Hunter’s homelands.
Right from the beginning, I started to feel somehow so deeply uncomfortable.
I wasn’t sure at first what it was about. I just felt heavy, so extremely heavy, and I felt sick in my guts.
It’s something to do with the death. I feel it. But it’s not the sadness of death, the sadness of someone going away. No. It’s something to do with myself longing for it too. Longing for going away.
He killed himself on my birthday. Even that.
I feel so deep-rooted sadness, still. I don’t know if it ever goes away. I have felt it for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a kid.
And what is my sadness about? It’s so deep in me. As if it was me myself.
Any time I hear people talking about someone who has killed themselves, I know I would have liked to be the one. In the depth of me, that seems to be me. It should be me now. Finally.
I feel so uncomfortable. I don’t know why he killed himself. I wish I knew the real reason: I wish I knew his fear.
It would be easier to understand myself and comfort myself – with a message to myself telling me all will be good, all the way, as long as I can be conscious about my existence. And, of course, after that, it just gets easier.
I guess the reason for my deep-rooted sadness is the fact that I’m still not able to feel I belong here, no matter what, I always feel alone. And I have a horror vision of not having any ‘for sure’ place in this world to return to, where I would always be welcome. As Hunter told, too, about his home that was everything to him.
I wish I could always be sure someone is waiting for me, that someone is for me, always wanting to be one with me, an inseparable connection with at least one human being. No matter what. Eternally. So that I could be sure, always, that I’m not left alone, be forgotten.
If I knew this for sure, I’m quite certain I wouldn’t feel trapped in this life. I would not need to kill myself.
