Preface of the Literary Essay: The Theory of Suicide

Poem

An Enchantress,
From Dawn to Night,                                                                                                                                               
Deceptively braided upon the wines of time,                                                                                                             
Her heart dangles from the lace of her dress, malign,                                                                                             
She struts slyly within callous lies, dances exotic, around what was really a glimpse,                                           
She beheld like eternity, calming her tentative mind,                                                                                               
From the floor she once strode, she, the face of awakening, now strikes cataclysmic,
Her siren rings frantic, and her lungs become winded,                                                                                           
As drops her lipstick, and flows the blood from the skin pricked,                                                                             
By the wound of masochist plight, her skin peels papery white,                                                                             
Dies out the enchanting ballroom lights, 
As she comes to know the kite she beheld a high spectacle,
Was nothing but a string penetrating her flesh,
The strut turns to a thresh,
And the deception was best deceiving when the one fooling believed,                                                        
She believed, and she deceived,                                                                                                                               
Her own soul within her grief,                                                                                                                         
And now her countenance lies a float, while sinks the disposition,                                                                         
No one would console,                                                                                                                                             
For one who holds no soul.                                                                                                                                   
She dances with holes,                                                                                                                                         
They find her whole,                                                                

The Night is prevailing at the break of dawn, a story untold.

Theories lie subjective, rooted within the journey of one’s own, but can there be an outlet of understanding, that can dare fathom, one of many aspects of simply the voice of self-termination, and be shared at a universal level? Prevailing a personified way of resonation, and conceivably saving one’s life, by the means of one perception, not aiming to get rid of the pain, or to necessarily move on or let go, but to hold on to, the agony by the means of becoming the art we make. Art can refer to many ambiguous connotations, but is in the unanimous agreement of making one feel a certain way, if the art we create, (anything we hold a passion towards, or the journey of leading to one), either music, paintings, writings, films, any personified statement of human creative- creation makes one notorious human being separate of us make feel a certain way, that is purpose enough, to make the tragedy within us, become the spectacles we create, to lead to not ridding the agony, per se, but to lead to holding fragments of a peculiar peace, a peace of one’s own, for a piece of one’s remaining own, in the room of one’s own, with possibly divine intervention to break through the cycle of justified ontology, and conceivably, potentially, possibly, lead to, holding on to our souls. The Theory of Suicide will intricately explain, where agony roots, being love, and what might be the way to hold on, while the shards of the glass break through the wines of our past, not letting go, neither our lives, nor the pain, but holding on. The Theory of Suicide doesn’t aim, to make other people understand what suicide is, or its cycles, but wants to prevent it, by reaching a theory, which i myself was revealed upon by agony, and will hold on to, and feel it a solemn cause to make it be known, my subjectivity might not be objectivity, but chances are the likes of one exists, hence the readers, are free to disagree, and state their own idea, even add or to take away from these ideas, but the idea I will gradually begin to explain isn’t made out of the fascination of suicide, or intrigue of the act, neither to save the day to infest my own protagonist urges, none of that, but it is something I myself developed, while thinking of death, a place outside of this continuous consciousness, and acute awareness. It may not be the truth for all, but it is sincere. Nor may it always prevail, for we are humans, living on earth, ubiquitously feeling, but may make suicide lesser of an option, more of an occasional distant thought, or nothing at all, or perhaps everything, though this does not aim to solve anything, but tell you truth, and let you hold on, to the agony, and your soul, all upon the subjective, if.