Rango Finito

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Today Laia learned that everybody eventually dies. Naturally, she does not want me to die. As I tell her that this is inevitable, I consider adding a promise of a return or a new opportunity to meet again maybe somewhere else (somewhere out there, far away). It just pops up. Perhaps that is the way religions were born: out of fear of telling children our time together is rather short. Fear of leaving them alone. Fear, really, of hurting them. Being my daughter, Laia is of course well aware of the ontology of ghosts (and monsters and zombies, she would add), so she actually looks forward to my reemergence as a semitransparent immortal entity; a presence she imagines both haunting and comforting. I suspect she would be thrilled to have her own personal ghost. Later, she will learn they are also essential to keep life on track. I will make sure to teach her that.


Because the alternative is being alive and this in particular requires an active commitment to presence and nearness, some of us have chosen the somewhat easier strategy of always fading away, extricating ourselves from time, renouncing to bodies and connections until we become transparencies (barely here, barely ever): faint voices increasingly distant, accumulations of memories at the border of the place containing everything that was never really true.


So you want to kill yourself. That’s good. That’s PURPOSE. I’m not going to try to change your mind. I trust you: you’ve thought about it and really know what you’re getting into because, let me tell you, death is not easy, nice or final. It hurts like hell and you feel, trust me on this one, that it will never end (and in a way it doesn’t—the agony is eternal). Thus I assume you’ve considered your options and after some analysis you’ve come to the conclusion that dying is the only way out of your current (and most certainly tragic) situation. I am actually kinda proud of you for being so mature and rational about this. I respect you. Most folks come here saying that they want to kill themselves and when I ask if they’ve gone over the prerequisites they’re like what the fuck, boet, I thought you were gonna help me, so I have to tell them that my services are only for those who have done the deeds. I am not really judging them nor doubting their sincerity. I understand my position: they pay, I facilitate their demise. I don’t care if they’re dead or alive, but I want to minimize the chances of regret. It’s happened to me before: they die and then they come back complaining about the aftershit. It’s not as good as they hoped it would be. There is no heaven. I hate the food. The music is cheap. What did they do to my grandmother. That sort of crap. Or they’ve just realized that there was a trivial solution to their stupid personal dilemma but now it’s too late for that and they hate me for having so effectively done my part. That’s what I try to prevent. I don’t like ghosts flying around my room at night, screaming in sorrow and calling me names. It’s exhausting. I already have my wife and children for that.

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