I Killed Myself

"The man who lives without conflict, who lives with beauty and love, is not frightened of death because to love is to die." — Jiddu Krishnamurti

One Saturday afternoon, I killed myself.

The murder was deliberated, calculated and formulated.
It was exact, meticulous and carried out with vengeful prejudice.

I assembled the pyre, upon which I threw myself and was immolated.
I went out to the ends of the earth, far to the nowhere-places of the world;
I went to the barren deserts, and the primordial realms of ice,
and to the summits of kilometre-high mountains that assail the sky—
I travelled these distances to dig my own grave.
I dug it, my place to rest for eternity, with my own very hands.
And there I lay myself, and buried myself, and died, and rotted away.
In the deepest trenches of the wrathful ocean I drowned myself,
and let my decrepit and withered soul sink down to the forgotten-darkness.

The Man I was—he who had an aching heart—I killed him.
I saw in him too much pain, felt too much of his pent up passion;
I knew these things too well of him—and so I sentenced him to die.

He was too connected to the world, both the external and his own.
The weight of perception and emotion was inhuman,
the heft of his heart too burdensome for me.

In all things he saw myself. At all times he strived, this maddened Man.
A son of Icarus, he flew too high to kiss the sun.
He burned, he burned. He burned and so he had to die.

Yes, it was all of him. Every particle of his being. I destroyed it all.
I nullified his conation, erased his mind and memory, throttled his weakening breath.
With razor-sharp implements I cut, I cut. I cut out his fear, severed his fear from him.
I was relentless, methodical. I left no trace of him. Yes, I annihilated him.

And when there was nothing left,
only he-I was left....

*

One afternoon, I killed myself. And it was then that I was born.
From out of the fire and ashes, from out the grave,
ascended from the abyssal deep, released from the death-grasp—
I came into new being, of the same form, but not;
as a murderer of the Self, and life-giver of the Self.

From death I became myself,
I became my own Love.

M.M. — 23-May-2015