Empty Orchestras

The Virgin Suicides is perhaps the most hauntingly beautiful film I have seen to date.

Every single character involved directly within the plot is just so messed up on so many different levels; the five daughters of the Lisbon family seem to intoxicate everyone around them, drawing them into the disturbed mental depths of their lives, and it is said near the very end that Cecilia began to spread the poison the day she slit her wrists.

I’m quite positive that the images of that film will remain with me for a while; hence the moodiness with which I try to conduct conversations with people I’ve slowly and sadly drifted away from. I’m sorry if I’m not responsive. Do I have to be? I feel like I’m selfish for wanting distance between myself and other people, but then surely, it’s for their good too? I don’t know. Perhaps I should wear a symbol, like a David’s star, on my jacket so that everyone around me will know not to associate with me.

The Virgin Suicides depicts suicide as a gentle, peaceful, ease into death if you will, and this could be said of many other representations of suicide in popular culture, such as The Falling Man of 9/11. It got me wondering if suicide is just that; a still death by choice. By choice. By choice implies acceptance on some levels. I don’t know what to say. Stillness is also so…unnatural. I feel so encompassed now by the notion of taking one’s life, but then it could be that I’m just tired. I’m always tired, but now I am especially tired as it is Sunday evening and my last memory of sleep was waking up bleary eyed on Saturday morning, dreading the day of studying ahead.

Suicide is to the most violent form of death. The mind tortures its victim endlessly and there is no escape, not from this; there will never be a way out of the mind. The aggressive nature of the constant mental self harm makes happiness seem a memory from long ago, or perhaps it was only a dream and this is reality. A reality which is harsh and brings you to loathe yourself and criticise yourself and beat yourself down but the really scary part is that you yourself are the enemy. It’s kind of like Harry Potter, I guess, and the Seven Deathly Hallows. If you haven’t read the book, go read it. Right this second.

I MEAN IT.

I’ll just assume that you’re done.

I love the colour gold. Is it even a colour? To rephrase: I love the shininess of the surface of the mineral that is gold.

I’m going to go and write another fucking essay for history. I swear, I’m going down. Death by essay writing.