Suicide no. 42: Defiance

Suicide no. 42: Defiance

–by Derek Alan Wilkinson


When you write the wrong way on ruled paper, and have thus proven some point, what say have you on the fact that you’re still holding that blasphemy of a scrap in your hands? What is your conclusion concerning the manufacturers of that perforated nonchalance, and what you’ve contrived to be a scheme all along?


What say you, after your act of defiance, against these things which—though you took your stand so hastily and bitterly towards—were still given birth to in the first place?


Rather than merely concluding that we’ve won some great war, I doubt most of us even try to comprehend the mechanisms which beget such cruelties. “So long as the victory is achieved against the totalitarian,” some seem to think, in an almost post-holocaust sense, “then why concern ourselves with the nature of our enemy?” However, even the most foolish know full well the value of considering the failures of others—of history: it’s merely a possibly vain attempt at the avoidance of pointless repetition.


“Possibly vain” is that awful part that rings true for me. It’s as if, no matter whether or not you discover the nature of the cause, you still might find your ideas in the scrap heap: scrambled, crumbled up, disheveled pieces of paper, with words written against the ruled lines, and wadded up in some forgotten corner. “Destitute restitution,” then, seems to sum up every effort to pull everything back together in a social system, or a similar set of personal circumstances in which the aforementioned and terrible set of principles apply—that is, to say, every attempt to fix any sort of problem is corroded with the possibility of collapse of the previous means of having fixed it.


Is the whole world patched up with fucking duct tape?


So, I call up my preacher

I say, “Give me strength for round five.”

He said, “You don’t need no strength. You need to grow up, son.”

I say, “Growing up leads to growing old, and then dying,

and dying, to me, don’t sound like all that much fun.”


And that’s what John Cougar Mellencamp thought on authority, along with the rest of the song which became its chorus and catchphrase:


I fight authority, authority always wins.


At least, according to the song, he always came out grinning.


Or, he came out that way when he was young.


I’m not young anymore. To stand up against oppression of any sort must chime with purpose outside of the battle itself for me.


And perhaps that is the end of all oppression: you either stand forever against it, sneering your wicked grin against its pitiless and infinite set of rules, or choosing to finally give in to it in the ultimate way—to surrender to that thing that every set of rules was, in some small or large way, contrived to protect against: death.


And I suppose that, in my suicidal end, I will have either destroyed that set of rules, or have allowed it to finally become my master once and for all.



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