They do not inspire me with disgust, but with an immense pity. Among all the mysteries of human life there is one which I have penetrated; our great torment in this existence comes from the fact that we are eternally alone -- all our efforts and all our actions are directed toward escaping this solitude.

On January 2, 1892, de Maupassant attempted suicide by cutting his throat.  He was committed to the celebrated private asylum of Dr. Esprit Blanche at Passy, in Paris, where he died on July 6, 1893, at the age of 43.

On my knees

On my knees, holding my head crying, crying because there is so much to cry for.

That’s what I should be doing, however I don't seem to be doing a lot of things I should these days. Not even crying. And god I need to cry.

I'm thinking what I should say in this entry that would be somehow more mature that what I've been writing since I was 15. But I'm clueless.

I've never doubted I am immature, I think my videos are a testimony of that... the first time I thought about writing my diary was back in Santa Marta, the most awful trip I've ever had... I haven't been near beach or a pool ever since. Then I truly thought it would be such relief, that in some way it would be a way out...years later I still do.

 I can’t stop writing this... I've tried, but I can’t stop, the damn journal keeps going on and on... and I keep filling it with the same feelings, trains of thought, etc...

I need a change... yes a change... one that goes beyond upgrading to vista or changing my sites look, or organizing my shelves.. I need a real change...

I need to stop pushing people away,

(Wow there are a lot of ellipsis in this journal)

(4 days late)

I feel like if someone had tripped me, and I tumbled over...

I feel like if someone had tripped me, and I tumbled over...

I just don’t know who?

Probably myself...

I don’t really know what to do next... I don’t even know what I am going to do the next hour... go to class or go home... I don’t know if I should remove illustrations, or videos... I hate them all so much... I don’t know if should publish my journal entries or not...

I don’t know, if I should keep on writing or give up already and try something else, I don’t know if should cut my hair or leave it as it is... I don’t know if I should keep on trying photography, or devote myself to manga.

I don’t know if should delete some of my contacts, I don’t know if I should date girls or boys... or stop dating at all... I don’t know if I should just lock myself at home alone... Should I get job, or try and make it on my own... should in stick to my dreams, or accept my life as it is and move ahead with it... I don’t know I f a should still believe in love... or in god... or in magic... or in anything at all

(29 days late)

God?

 Yeah?

 I have problem

No! Really?! 

No need to be sarcastic.

... The girl I like talks to you…

 But I think you tell her something different than you tell me so... l, are you lying?

 Of course not.

Lying would imply saying something that is not true, and everything is true.

 She thinks I am a sinner 

You are sinner

You told her you spoke to god.

She asked me what you answered me back when I spoke to you... I lied 

What did you say? 

I said you always replied the same thing: yes.

 Well, you certainly omitted my neat sense of humor and sarcasm. 

I know... I don’t know why id did it.

 You don’t believe it’s me anymore

I do.... I do believe this is you

 Then why didn’t you tell her. 

I don’t know... 

I guess I was afraid I would come out as a raving lunatic, I told her... I was god. 

Which is true? 

Yeah, for you and me who understand it? 

But for her... must have sounded insane... 

Can you talk to her? 

I will 

Thanks she is bit stubborn

 I know

\(4 days late)

May my death be fruitful. And force the meditation. So that those who can, learn the lesson.

From the suicide letter of Miguel Ángel Quevedo. Cuban Editor, Shot himself while living in exile  in Venezuela. 

We were all guilty. Everyone. By action or omission. Old and young. Rich and poor. Black and white. Honored and thieves. Virtuous and sinners. Of course, we still had to learn the incredible and bitter lesson: that the most "virtuous" and the most "honored" were the poor.

I die disgusted. Alone. Outlaw. Exiled. And betrayed and abandoned by friends to whom I generously gave my moral and financial support in very difficult days. [...] All dehumanized and cold abandoned me in "the fall".

May my death be fruitful. And force the meditation. So that those who can, learn the lesson. [...]And for the people to reconsider and repudiate those spokesmen of hatred, whose fruits we have seen could not be more bitter.

We were a people blinded by hate. And we were all victims of that blindness. Our sins weighed more than our virtues. We forgot Nuñez de Arce when he said:

"When people forget their virtues, it's a tyrant in its own vices."

Bang bang!

 "depressed . . . without phone . . . money for rent . . . money for child support . . . money for debts . . . money!!! . . . I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings & corpses & anger & pain . . . of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners . . ."  - Kevin Carter 

I can see it so clearly

I can see it so clearly, in 2 or three years, right after finishing collage... I am going to be so lost; I’m no journalist, but that’s my career… and people will ask me "why don’t you change? Why don’t you change your career? Why don’t you make new friends? Why do you finish your book?" 

And I’ll have to answer something lame like 

"It’s like being lost inside a forest, a thick forest, and I’ve been shown a path, not a clear path but like the trace someone left behind, and I’ve been following it for ages and it hasn’t got me anywhere, now, impulsive, decided and strong people would notice that and would leave the path and make their own way, but me, I’m not smart enough or brave enough to leave the path I’ve been shown, even if I know it’s only going in circles... I just can’t"

(1 day late)

I had this dream...

I had a dream...

I was at home watching TV, my mom was around, and then I noticed the building in front of the window was burning. And there were children, very young children, babies even... some were wearing costumes.

Then for no reason, their mothers started to push them down the window, I went down, to try to catch them, I only caught one.... there were more people trying too, but children and babies kept hitting the floor.

there was no blood, but the crash was shocking enough.... then it all stopped, and I noticed a small tiny, ugly baby that I thought to be dead, and despite that I tried to pick her up, and then she woke up.... a doctor then brought a weird trans lucid staff as some sort of resource to keep her alive...

I woke up, and went to class... I didn’t tell anything to anyone.

(6 days late)

What am I going to do with my life

Death will come with your eyes

this death that accompanies us

from morning till night, sleepless,

deaf, like an old regret

or a stupid vice. Your eyes

will be a useless word,

a muted cry, a silence.

As you see them each morning

when alone you lean over 

the mirror. O cherished hope,

that day we too shall know

that you are life and nothing.

For everyone death has a look.

Death will come with your eyes.

It will be like terminating a vice,

as seen in the mirror

a dead face re-emerging,

like listening to closed lips.

We'll go down the abyss in silence. 

Cesare Pavese

On August 27, After winning a literary award, he committed suicide in a Turin hotel room by a barbiturate overdose.