He thought about suicide, a lot.
Not about comitting suicide himself, but about the phenomen of the suicide.
The state of letting go that the mind must get to, to do it. The wish of just giving up of, literally, everything. The emptiness of the mind. Or, in some cases, the fullness; the so heavy and unbearable fullness, that the mind just can’t handle. Those were the things that made him wonder.
It’s not the giving up part that is hard, he figured, as he drove under the slow rain. Giving up is easy. Nor the all the things and people left behind part; everyone is selfish, and, when it came to the decision of holding on to your life or not, selfishness is all you’ve got. When it comes to that point, he thought, the thing you most have the right to be is selfish.
The hard part, he concluded, were — as it is for most of the things in our lives — the feelings. The way you must not feel to do it, when you do it. The coldness of the last second. The pure heartless action.
How does it feel to feel nothing? How could you possibily not feel?
He could not understand that. And that was when he knew he would never do it. For to feel was the only thing that he could do. And it was the only thing that he got.