We live in a world where death is the ultimate climax. It’s only in death that we are remembered most profoundly, forgiven most easily, prayed upon most sincerely. It’s only in death that we amount to something substantial so that we can die a hero of sorts. Our lives and memories are combed in search of striking stories and wisdom quotes that can be shared and cherished. It’s the only way the living can hang on to the dead. It is too discomforting to criticise or condemn those that have ceased to exist. Ultimately, death is the only guaranteed means of love and forgiveness.
So should we then be striving to die? No, says God. No, says Society. One may not wish for death. It’s selfish. Suicide is forbidden. You may rot alone and feel unloved but that’s OK. When it gets unbearable and you jump from a roof, chances are they will finally know. You were hurting. You were broken. Suddenly the world will sit up and take notice. Most people will judge you. Others will sympathise with you. Too bad you are too dead to care. They will dissect your life for answers, the very life you decided to take because the world could not afford enough fucks about the living you. The dead, however, have a guaranteed fuck reserve.
Death is a Catch 22. The living needs loving too.