Not So Happy Hunting Ground
So I feel like a real asshole.
After a quick moment of remorse on learning of Hunter's demise, I asked myself what would Hunter do and then proceeded to broadcast the news on all channels. What I didn't do was my research which would have unearthed the fact that Hunter had not only died, he had died of a "self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."
Now, to indulge in a further (furthur) excercise in bad taste, let me just say that if you have to go (and we all have to go) and you happen to be the King of Weird and a Notorious Gun-Freak, maybe a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head isn't so bad. Even in death, the legend continues.
Suicide. Last resort of cowards? Not bloody likely. When a man like Thompson pulls the trigger, you may question it, you may wonder why (and I have a feeling that Thompson's final tale will remain untold, an eternal mystery that will be forgotten by most in fifteen minutes) but you don't doubt his courage.
I am a great depressive - paralyzed by life, saddened by death, scared. That is not to say that I am not sometimes happy - sometimes very happy - but I no longer deny that there is a subtle disease that lingers in the corners, waiting for my guard to drop. Lately my guard has been dropped, and the disease has feasted. I let it, because one thing is much like the other, it whispers.
Suicide remains outside the pale of options. Perhaps it is only because when measured on the relative misery scale of humanity, I am blessed beyond measure (was it God or luck? Should I kneel beside my bed at night and thank Jesus I'm American? Couldn't do that. I'm Jewish.) and I know it.
On the other hand, I remain human and I do not believe in Heaven. I cannot bring myself to doubt the troubling hypothesis that while the soul might exist, it remains mortal. Twenty-two with an eternity ahead, but I know that one day that eternity will come to an end. I am less scared of dying tomorrow than I am of dying in fifty years. Dying tomorrow would take me by surprise.
The fear of death and age can only be conquered through suicide, the last resort of heroes. But you need not worry about me. I'm no hero.
After a quick moment of remorse on learning of Hunter's demise, I asked myself what would Hunter do and then proceeded to broadcast the news on all channels. What I didn't do was my research which would have unearthed the fact that Hunter had not only died, he had died of a "self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."
Now, to indulge in a further (furthur) excercise in bad taste, let me just say that if you have to go (and we all have to go) and you happen to be the King of Weird and a Notorious Gun-Freak, maybe a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head isn't so bad. Even in death, the legend continues.
Suicide. Last resort of cowards? Not bloody likely. When a man like Thompson pulls the trigger, you may question it, you may wonder why (and I have a feeling that Thompson's final tale will remain untold, an eternal mystery that will be forgotten by most in fifteen minutes) but you don't doubt his courage.
I am a great depressive - paralyzed by life, saddened by death, scared. That is not to say that I am not sometimes happy - sometimes very happy - but I no longer deny that there is a subtle disease that lingers in the corners, waiting for my guard to drop. Lately my guard has been dropped, and the disease has feasted. I let it, because one thing is much like the other, it whispers.
Suicide remains outside the pale of options. Perhaps it is only because when measured on the relative misery scale of humanity, I am blessed beyond measure (was it God or luck? Should I kneel beside my bed at night and thank Jesus I'm American? Couldn't do that. I'm Jewish.) and I know it.
On the other hand, I remain human and I do not believe in Heaven. I cannot bring myself to doubt the troubling hypothesis that while the soul might exist, it remains mortal. Twenty-two with an eternity ahead, but I know that one day that eternity will come to an end. I am less scared of dying tomorrow than I am of dying in fifty years. Dying tomorrow would take me by surprise.
The fear of death and age can only be conquered through suicide, the last resort of heroes. But you need not worry about me. I'm no hero.
posted by Sad Traveler at 10:40 AM
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