A Ballad of suicide letters
“When the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune.”
― Albert Camus, The First Man
I had twenty in my pocket, ten in my veins, and one in my heart. Happiness was another taste. I was an absurdist at heart. I knew nothing made sense. Nothing amounted to anything. There was no meaning. There was no voice on the lips of terror, no sensation in the veins of pain.
I had already decided- in the midst of suffering, man- bereft of meaning, chooses to live.