Seven days ago I started an experiment. My aim was to find out how important I was to those friends of mine who were the most important for me. I shouldnít have started. I should have been content with the pretense of honest friendships. I decided that I wouldnít call anyone or go out of my flat, just wait and see how much time would pass until someone gives me a ring or appears at my door. I expected only a few hours of solitude. And now itís been a whole week since I have seen anyone. Iím not surprised that my parents didnít show up, they never do when they should. I wouldnít wanna see them anyway. I guess they donít miss me, either. But where the hell are my friends? Those I used to meet every other day. How come they completely forgot about me? Was I ever important to them at all? Whom do I expect to answer these questions? And why do I write down that I want to commit suicide? Why do I think that the paper or the pen will shout at me to get this crazy idea out of my head? Iíd rather be mad and have conversations with my notebook than be this sad and lonely.
I am unable to call up anyone. Itís too late now. Now that I know the truth (and how small a truth it is!), I donít wanna live any longer. But Iím too tired to do anything that would destroy this body I donít feel to belong to me. I often wondered what that man said to the others who was lying on the pavement and didnít let anyone to help him stand up, he just told them to leave him alone and shouted that he wasnít crazy, he just knew something and with that knowledge he didnít wanna move any more. And the people around him insisted that he tell them what it was all about and when he finally did share his knowledge with them, they all lay down exactly where they were and moved never again.
My pathetically small truth would make no one lie down and die except for myself. I wish I had a button at my belly with the letters OFF on it. And I wish people would find me after I turned myself off and feel sorry for me and then my friends (or how should I call them?) would also come and see what they had done to me with their neglect and would frantically look for another button (the one that says: ON) to make me live and move and love again.
Deep down I know now that no one cares for me but even when I put down the very words Ďno one cares for meí I hear voices in my head say Ďno, itís not true, there must be at least one person who cares for meí and probably there is, but now I will never know. Iím gonna die and I smile when I see these words on the paper. I donít want anyone to stop me any more. They would pity me if I stayed alive, but if I die they will know at least that I wasnít a coward. Or is it really so? Will they know? Am I not a coward? Will it make me a coward if they think I was one after Iím dead and buried? Will my parents buy a nice coffin for me? Will I see them crying over my dead body? Do I really want to die or I only want others to see me dead? Is there a difference? Will I die if I stop writing?