Suicide no. 26: Wish

Suicide no. 26: Wish

–by Derek Alan Wilkinson


I wish that I could fall in love a million times over, and it not end the same every time—with the thought of a noose slipping me off into silence. I wish I didn’t hate my ex-girlfriends. And, for some of them, I wish that they didn’t hate me.


As a writer, I wish a lot of things. I wish more people would read my work, that less people would take it seriously, or more seriously, depending upon the person. I wish my site stats were higher. As narcissistic as it sounds, maybe I could stand to wish myself so self-centered. Read and proofread as much as I’d like, I still wish I knew whether or not my work was worth reading.


I wish I could live forever, and that I could know what the outcome of that would be before I wished it; if it’s going to get better and better—this consciousness thing—then, I suppose I could allow myself to wish for it. If not, fuck it: I’m good with dying. I just wish that I knew the difference.


I wish they’d make a form of alcohol—like something of a derivative, or a synthetic—that you could drink all night, get drunk, and not get a hangover the next day.


I wish Pearl Jam had never written Better Man. I think it’s the worst thing they ever came out with—lyrically, musically, and, well, I just think it’s complete shit. But I do wish I was around for the Vitalogy tour.


I wish that music didn’t completely go to shit when the Internet came out.


I started to wish that I’d lived in a different era, but I think this one—even with its almost infinite series of flaws—is okay by me. It took awhile for me to get there, but here I am—that is, okay with it.


I wish I’d read most of the so-called “classics” in literature, and I’m too ashamed to claim the ones I haven’t read—as a so-called “writer.” I suppose I could mention War and Peace, but that’s a cop-out because it’s such a long work. I count myself nearly illiterate when it comes to shit that I wish that I would’ve read. Luckily, if I live long enough, I’ll cross it off my bucket list eventually.


I wish I was a greater inspiration to the world, and that the best of my work didn’t have to come out when I was drunk or drug-addled. I am glad, however, that I’ve had the opportunity to write when people were literate and cultured enough to accept my work without having to be rich, or somehow privileged, to access it.


I wish that my day job paid more, but who doesn’t?


I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t want to be famous—at least, not in the traditional sense. It’s stupid, arrogant, selfish, and a lot of other things to wish that you could make a living on something as dream-driven as writing. I’d feel guilty if I made millions off of this shit—like I didn’t deserve it.


And I don’t. And neither do you. I don’t care how “good” you are: whatever you label “good” as.


I feel like the real tragedy is not that most of us will be wage slaves for the rest of our lives, but that there are so many people who undeservedly claim riches and fame without having earned an ounce of it. And I wish that things weren’t that way.


I wish that I could end my life, somehow making my suicide mean something. But that’s selfish and self-centered, too.


So, I only wish that, knowing what I know, that my life ends as painlessly as it can—and that I can gain some thought—some more insight—toward what my next wish should be.


Inspired by the Daily Post’s prompt:



7 thoughts on “Suicide no. 26: Wish

      1. I’m supposed to have the ability to approve comments before they wind up on my site. I’m not sure what happened–if you hacked into my shit, or what. You can be sure that, whatever the case may be, I’m going to fix it before things go awry.

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