A Suicide note (for the landscape)

A suicide note/letter (for the landscape)



The following shall be read within, not out loud, not to others, but alone. Preferable in a site inhabited by green living entities or in a vast industrial indoor space completely without living entities.



1,0: ‘(for the landscape)’ because this is where my temporally ‘I’ finds the beauty and strength to write these words.


1,1: It is to this landscape which I leave this note.


1,2: All suicide notes take place in a landscape.


2,0: These words are a literacy exercise/gesture.




I write goodbye, because whispering it to your attentive eyes and warm pulse would be unbearable. I would break. Into pieces. You would collect me. Pick me up and hold me close to your heart. So yes, forgive me, but I am hiding within my writing.


I don’t wish for you or anyone else to collect my pieces . Rather, by writing this, I hope soon to let my broken pieces shatter for forces undefined but words. I beg you, let my pieces proceed, let them stop-to-be.


What is ‘stopping-to-be’?


This is difficult. And I want you to be aware, that it is hurting me, and that you will never fully understanding how much and in what wat I am hurt. I am crying. Shaking. Struggling to settle with words or movements. So, I sit very still. Freezing. Next to the ocean.  In the wind.

Maybe I am waiting. Maybe waiting for the stopping to come.


Perhaps, writing is the closest form of dying we can get. Perhaps these words can be a practice in leave-taking from life. Here, in writing, the ‘I’, our ‘we’, and ‘life’ appears very non-like. It’s just words. This piece of paper, these words, this coming suicide is not real. And yet, I feel everything has changed direction by writing it.

The feelings grow with each word. With each withholding breath. With each moment of waiting.


By writing, I hope to write away all the hauntings and traumas. By writing, hope gains new matter. From rocks to words, to paper, to electrified spaces.


This suicide note is a calling for the landscape to catch the falling. Or to just let it all keep falling. Out of words. Out of finite time and space.


I call for the landscape to carry the burden of my death.

Maybe the landscape will also lay my ghosts to rest. Maybe soon these words and this pulse of mine will become a wind growing through the leaves of a tree or moist sinking through the soil.


I will sit for a moment. In silence. Listening for the landscape to be ready for my fall.


Listening; perhaps a last form of being; takes leave with its marks on the pages.


The landscape reply with what before were just silence. Listening attempts to grow in strength. It attempts take place.

A dissolving takes place. A leave-taking places itself around everything.


By being silent, by letting the body fall, the mind rest, and the soul wander – maybe the landscape will have a chance to listen to these words. To this note.


This suicide note is part of the landscape in which it has been written, read, dissolved, and embodied.












Am no more.