I hate life more than a vampire loves blood, and my greatest fear is that there's more of it beyond death. Which is ironic, because most people have the opposite fear. The fear of either death in and of itself or of the fact that maybe the majority of the world's religions are wrong. What if life is nothing more than a mere mist, we often asks ourselves, which when liberated from its flesh-and-blood containment is distributed by the wind withersoever, until it totally vanishes? Leaving only a trace of crumbling flesh in its wake, which itself will be nothing more than particles of dust in a couple of years. What if all this was just a meaningless blip in the grand scheme of things? If one day you just woke up as one dimensionless entity having neither thought, speech nor even self-identification. Not able to identify, let alone read and make sense of, letters; not able to feel the wind on your skin or smell the salt of the sea. If everything became darkness, how about it?
Now, I didn't take philosophy in college, perhaps I'd have if I hadn't dropped out. But at a certain age and especially at a certain place, after making certain decisions you can't help but think philosophically. As your entire life flashes before your eyes, and mind. As memories flood the little reservoir built over a relatively short lifespan for their containment. As your weary eyes scan the empty abyss below from the vantage point of a tall and steep rock structure and you can't help but see similarities between this empty space and your own existence eversince the very day you started breathing, an existence as hollow as bone without marrow.
The birds sing and flap their wings. If reincarnation is real, wouldn't you want to return as a bird? Flying in the broad expanse of the sky? Singing. Eating the plenteous things of the earth. Wouldn't you want to be a bird? Is it what I think it is.
"It is what you think it is," says a still, small but powerful voice, the voice of the wind to be sure, but in this instance it is as real as that of a real man. A whisper, or a little more than that. The wind whispers but a lot of nothing. This is something indeed. A guardian angel perhaps? A demon? God?
"Why do you want to jump from the cliff?" the voice asks. This time making itself clear that it is a voice from some otherworldly realm, but as real as any from this world.
Well, because I want to end my life, I think. And I think I'm not heard.
"You want to end your life? You want to die, why?"
My thoughts are known to the mysterious entity? Maybe it's just bluffing. So let's make sure, shall we? I don't want to waste my time talking to you, I say out loud. In my mind that is. The gift of my voice is a privilege I want this thing to earn.
"You won't talk to me, huh? It's okay. I won't reveal myself to you then, and you'll never know who sent me here, or why?"
The voice is getting louder, and more confident. And it's being projected from various places around me. The invisible thing is encircling me like a shark's fin encircles a topsy-turvy boat full of helpless people, injured and bleeding.
"I don't know you," I say, turning my head around. Hoping my face coincides with where the figure is at any given time.
"You'll know all about me as soon as you answer my question?"
"Which one?"
"Do you want to die?"
"I think it's pretty obvious to anyone who knows anything about humans, especially humans who come to this place at the end of September."
"It's not obvious to me."
"So you ain't as omnipotent as my initial impressions of you would've made me believe?"
"If I answer your question I'd have made a very important characteristic of my entity known to you at no slightest effort on your part. Do you want to die?"
"Yes, I want to die," I respond. I shake my head after hearing myself confess out loud to such a thing. But it's the truth. And maybe the wind, or whatever this talking element is, will tell me a thing or two that a therapist or two hasn't.
"Why?"
"Because life is pointless, that's why?" I look at the white birds in the sky. A sky that's turning orange. Which soon will be bleeding. As my body will be on the jagged rocks below, unless the entity reveals something I don't already know about life. Which is that it's dark, cold and lonely.
"So you think the birds have it better than you, don't you?"
"I don't care. I just want to die."
He got it wrong this time. I really don't want to be like the birds. One thing I've learned is this particularly when it comes to us breathing entities: The grass is always greener on the other side. You think he or she has it better than you? Well, wait until you hear what he or she is going through. Then you'll want your problems back. You'll pay anything to be you again. That's what my grandma used to tell me. She was the most amazing woman I've ever met. Still died of cancer, after the longest time lived in unspeakable pain.
"What do you think death is like?"
"I know what life is like. And that's enough to send me here. Now, who are you?"
"I'm a spirit. In other words I'm dead. And I'm tired of being dead."
"Tired. . . You're dead? What are you talking about?"
"I used to be like you. Made the same choice that you're about to. Succeeded in executing the plan. Before I died my guardian angel appeared to me as I have appeared to you today. Told me not to jump. I still did."
"Why?"
"Because I was tired of living as you think you are."
"So you regret it?"
"I don't feel anything here. No pain. No joy. No hunger. Nothing. What do you think?"
"Will I meet my grandma if I die? And will she be happy that I did what I'm going to do?"
"I've talked to your grandma. She won't care. She won't even recognize you. She's the definition of dead."
"Okay."
There's the sound of a chopper up above. Then a voice from a megaphone asking me to cease and desist. They're going to lower one of their people down to talk to me. I don't need to do this. There's so much. . .
But I rise to my feet. Feel the natural wind of the cliff, and the artificial wind manufactured by the helicopter' rotor blades. I'm on the very edge, so the combined force of the two threaten to throw my lanky frame off. Smell. Touch. Taste. The sight of all the glories of the world above and below me. Sounds. Both sweet and defeaning.
"Are you sure you want to do this," guardian angel asks with some unabashed excitement.
"I already told you. And you haven't told me anything that's changed my mind."
"Very well then. You have what I want, and you don't. The rule says we should fight. The harder you throw them punches, the more difficult you make it for both of us. Hope you remember that, if anything.
"Bruce, don't," I hear a familiar but faint voice say. Too late. I already feel the wind attempt to buoy my body upward as I take the plunge. Then everything is dark. Dark, dark, dark.