The Last Time I Committed Suicide

People with an imagination and a vivid one at that never commit suicide. Take me for example. I really thought about it.

Standing in the train station at Frankfurt. The cold clean gleaming tracks that meet only to part. A casual fall when the train enters the station would be all that it takes. Till then a cheerful countenance and maybe even strike up a conversation with the fat lady beside me. Oh- I am terrific actor alright. I remember Sr. Joseph wiping her eyes seeing me die as a very young Romeo with a penciled curling moustache. Juliet found it difficult to hold back tears hearing my dialogues- she wasn't supposed to, remember she supposedly dies before Romeo.

So as I was saying, I would maintain a light and perhaps even witty dialogue with the fat lady. And my shoelaces that always come undone would conveniently come undone when the train enters and I would lean a tad too forward.

And the silver shuddering train that always rushes on precarious tracks. It would mostly be in black and white because I like it that way.

And the fall. In slow motion. Gracefully- as that would be my last fall. I can't fall any lower.

And the train like angry words that cant stop too soon would run over me. The smell of crunching bones and flesh in squealing protest. The blood alone in red. Like a Quentin Tarantino movie.

The warm and rusty taste of it. The trickles in small rivulets. And my last unsaid and unheard thoughts.

That's how I never committed suicide. One just shouldn't think too much.

I got into the train. I'll imagine an accident till I get off at work.