Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.

Date Name/email

What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?

Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
09 Jun 2003 Nicole Hey, it's me again. I still want to kill myself. My b/f dumped me and I still love him but my best friend is going to go out with him even though she knows I still love him. Isn't that just great? I just want to die.... she's such a bitch... bye
09 Jun 2003 will Yesterday i came back down the loft. Cor, that was an experience. I did myself fish and chips. i decided to have a bottle of wine with it. I drunk the whole bottle, and well, it tasted of piss. Not that i drink piss, but this wine left an after taste. i became very drunk, and i think i fell asleep. My dearly beloved (said with sarcasm) came home early and caught me. Oh dear, i was sooo scared, i wanted the earth to swallow me up! ummm, i'm going back up the loft to hide...........
08 Jun 2003 j If you have hatred and malice in your heart, your problems are caused by your friends or peers. Go to school with a 10/12 gauge shotgun and during lunch, which is usually where you can find the most people congregated in one place, shoot yourself in the face. Before you do that yell something haunting like," It's all your faults." Just an example.
08 Jun 2003 just a girl nicki.... hey.. im just a girl.. i make regular posts on here to escape the insanity of my own life.. everyone has their story to tell right.. i know it must hurt to see your mum like that.. really hurt.. but u must remember that its her life she is ruining and it shouldnt have to ruin yours too.. especially by making u take your own life.. you're only 15 dude (im 16) and you got so much more to live for if that is your only problem.. in years to come you can be free of your mum and all her shit and make a really good life for yourself.. dont think of ending it now, you would miss out on so many things that are waiting for you to experience..

its understandable for it to make you feel a little crazy and depressed.. but remember its not a reason to take your own life.. feel free to come here and share your thoughts.. im always here.. trying to escape my own madness :)
08 Jun 2003 Nicki I am 15... but tonite i am in a great need to talk to someone... it's too late to call anyone, like they'd care. I'm alone in my room... there's so much crap going thru my head. I don't know what to do. I don't want to commit suicide, but at the same time I do. It's selfish and stupid, but my mom's a drunk. right now she's in the kitchen, drunk off her ass with some millionaire... She came into my room about a half an hour ago, after her new boyfriend came over and tried to buy me and my little sister off with a new CD player. I told him to go to hell, that we didn't need his money. My mom came in and told me what an ungrateful little brat I was... She told me I should just go away, and never come back. That she wouldn't miss me... I know she's drunk. But she's done this when she's sober. It only makes her more aggresive. I can't stand seeing her when she's drunk... I just can't take it. I mean, I'm suppose to be looking up to her right? But all my life all I've done i look down on her. I've raised myself, and my sister. All that cheap slut has done is gotten us in a tiny apartment... with barely any food. She uses guys for money, abuses me and my sister. I don't have friends because everyone thinks i'm some poor little twit with no life. I pray to God, I've gotten saved... I pray all the time for a better light. But there's nothing but more pain. I know that Suicide is a sin, but now I'm wondering if life is worth it. I've tried... i've really tried to improve my life. But I'm at the end of my rope... I need help...
07 Jun 2003 Suicidal Bliss put a 9MM pistol in your mouth and pull the trigger. Instant death! Make sure you use a hollow point bullet to blow out the back of your head.

If no gun, take every cleaner under the kitchen sink and drink it. off to blissful permanent sleep
07 Jun 2003 Demthsmydhone It's alright, we're not going anywhere. Sun is shining.
07 Jun 2003 just a girl emily... dont do it... if this site has helped you, like myself, delay your plans, even if for a few days.. keep holding on.. keep trying.. keep coming here and sharing your thoughts..

for your thoughts, just delayed my plans... for yet another day...
(Set by John Duke)

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good morning,"
And he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, yes richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Suicidal people need therapeutic help, I have depression where I punish myself for the things I don't do, like talk to a girl or something. But I still try to fight the good fight... Hopefully I'll get through this with therapy.

07 Jun 2003 Skidz First. hook yourself up on the kind of drugs you only used out of distress when you were a child. Gasoline huffing on virgin lungs would work fine. Second. remove all of your clothing. Third. find a nice ladder. and finally. Throw! your body and mind into an 8 foot Fire Ant hill. the mind has bent. the body is gone. style is the key.
07 Jun 2003 will ummm, i don't think there is an easy way to kill yourself. i always think up of different ways, but i can't carry it out. i suppose if someone shoots you at point blank range it's quick. sorry :(
Anyway, on a lighter note, i was cleaning up my new car. Well, it dates back to 1988, but it's new to me. I was lubricating the locks with that WD40 stuff. it comes with a small straw type thing, so that you can direct it better. well, i got this straw thing jammed in the boot(trunk)lock. i thought, you fuckin prat Will. It's still stuck in it. Ummm, you're all thinking, what's that got to do with suicide? hmmm, well, nothing actually. i thought i would just mention it. ummm, yeh well, i think i better return to the loft, don't you think......
07 Jun 2003 I_Care To Whoever will hear:

By the time i was 13, I wanted to die, too. I had been beatened frequently by a cruel step-father from age 4 until his death at age 10. Ridiculed at school....

Don't die. I don't mean to preach to you, but I can tell you that today, I'm alive. I'm an adult woman who remembers the cruelty of children at school. I didn't have all the nice things they had. And so, I was also treated badly.

Why am I still alive? I discovered that people whose confidence and self-worth is sabotaged at an early age are normally those with a special purpose in life. And all that is evil is trying desperately to prevent that purpose from being fulfilled. There are people waiting to meet you.... only YOU. Maybe some have not even been born as yet. But your absence from this planet will leave a vacancy that no one can fill. And much never accomplished... because only YOU can accomplish it.

Now... I will say... "Someone has already died for your pain.... and with Him... He took all the pain you're feeling now. His death declares just how valuable you are. His death says that you mean more to Him than His very own Life. And I agree. His statement on the Cross about your value should speak louder to you than the words of "kids". As an adult I have walked by MANY of the cruel children who tormented me in school.... now adults, homeless, disabled, alone, working domestic jobs, looking as if they are 20 years older than I. Nicole, GOD will not overlook their cruelty. But don't join them in their cruelty to you by ending your life. You will be agreeing with them. And they are WRONG.

Suicide is permanent answer to a temporary problem.

GOD's love for you is outside of the bad decisions made by our parents or family members. GOD's love for us is beyond what others see and say about us. That pounding at your heart.... that's Him.... knocking.... waiting for you to give Him permission to come in.

Right now, I'm praying for you. Choose life. Choose HIM.

From your despair... it's obvious He's already chosen you.
06 Jun 2003 hermione granger let your mum catch u sleeping with your step dad----------- she kill you herself and save you doing it
06 Jun 2003 naomi mikamura dear ...uuhhh ...ill get back to u on that one...

anyway... i did my... 8th suicide attempt about 13 days ago... and do u wanna know a secret...? IT FAILED!!!... AGAIN!!!!! i mean what am i? oblivious to fucking physical damage or something...?! ... ~deep breath~ ... "1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9......... why the fucking hell cant i die?!?!?! ...~another deep breath~... (to avoid losing my temper... actually... it should me my head that is lost...)


1. i slit my wrists...
pain level: 4
2. i drunk so toxic liquid...
pain level: blacked out
3. i stabbed myself along the torso...
pain level:11
4. (u aint gonna believe dis one... but i was desperate) i shoved a knife up my ass...
pain level:12
5. (i got this one from this site #21) i induced vomiting which lasted about 18 minutes... (at the 11 minute point my i started vomiting blood...) then i blacked out... and indeed went into a coma which lasted at least 23 days or so... when i woke up i immediatly looked around and said "..... what the hell... ACK! aww... im still breathing... i was sure that would work..."
pain level:23
6. i went to this ski resort and pretended to go snow boarding... then i purposely got COMPLETLY lost (at this point... i knew there was no turning back...) it was cold... very cold... perfect... i got COMPLETELY naked and laid down in the snow... cold... so very cold... i started getting tired... so i said hey... mabye ill wake up in hell... then blacked out... i dont remember much after that.. .but they found me... unfortunatly...
pain level: 44 "OUCH!"
7. (i dont know what came over me...but i got naked for this one...) i got naked and took a skinny yet sharp knife whose blade was about 3.5 inches long... and shoved about 3 inches of that up my belly button... and yeah... there was alot of blood...
pain level:27
and last but not least 8. i simply beat myself up untill i bleed from my nose, mouth, and vagina (dont ask me how that happened...?)
pain level:30

....and well those are my 8 attempts... my question is why am i here typing this...? i should be dead!!! damnit... anyway i just wanted to... now i remember who this was too!!! its to "just a girl" and this "lucy"!!!!!!!! wish me luck on my attempts ok?
06 Jun 2003 Emily People don't understand that this isn't something people can just get rid of. It takes a lot of will power just to talk to someone. I'm glad this site is up- it helps people vent and listen. It's delayed my plans by at least a few days. Thank you Mouchette.
06 Jun 2003 Emily Let's get started. The door is open. The staircase awaits us. Pick up your suitcases. What have you packed? Seashells. Grass. Candles. What have we all packed? This is what we have packed:

A plastic shark
Line Paper
The music

I want to take you with us. But we've packed our suitcases full. Wave goodbye, everyone. Goodbye Kevin. Thank you for everything. Keep the vines watered. Try to understand. Everything I have done I have done for you. I do this for you. Remember. Don't look. See. I know you won't look. You can see me when you want. Just find a leak. Vonnegut will help you.

And the spirit guide. I have left behind a small cane for him. Please give it to him. He should be in the tree.

Give Josie the pictures. Tell him he was substantial.

Tell Javier he's a jerk.

Make my ears stop ringing! Stop. RIng! Pang! What are you trying to tell me, Scaraby? Should I leave now? I'm ready.

But is everyone else?

I am leaving behind my life. I donate my life to the world. Take good care of it. Someone can make use of it. Or give it to Kevin, to keep in his Emegene (emergency) box. Listen at night and I will speak to you. I love you. I'm sorry I have to leave.
I'll stay in the box. But keep the large black box off. That box is a Pandora's box. It lets loose all the evils in the world. Cover it up with your sheets. And throw the moving pictures out of your window. Sleep on the floor, because your sheets are on the Pandora's box. Dream about me. Listen to the box. Someday you can follow after me.

I'll miss you.


I can see the end coming soon. I don't have to look. Looking is decieving. The leak will burst into a hundred pieces when I go through the door to the other place. Keep the pieces. Glas is made of sand, the sand that washed over Yellow. I am a grain of sand in that leak. I will show you who you really are. The leak does not lie. I do. I'm sorry I had to lie.

It takes all kinds.

How will I know what to say at the end? What words will complete Scaraby? Are there any such words? I guess we shall see.

You can come too. But you'll need a suitcase.

Remember, it's the green disk! The green one! Black is only absence!

"But we don't like you!"

Somtimes I worry when the house grows quiet and time passes very slowly. I get afraid that you don't exist anymore. And then when you do I don't care anymore.

Oh no. Oh agitaion and inevitableness. The sand has fallen all over the desk. The sand from the white land has been scattered. Why now? I'll never be able to retrieve all the grains! Why is this all happening? Earlier, Scaraby was in danger of being lost forever! And the ringing, and now the sand. I'm getting afraid. I don't want to open the closet. Please don't make me. I'm not ready yet. I can't. I can't leave the sand like that. Or can I? Might the wind blow it away and start a new dune and a new desert? And what will it be called?

Everything needs a name.

Demthsmydhone. Dunesmydhone.

I remember when it started. I remember everything. Deer Wolf Horse Tiger Snake Eagle! Make me young again! Make me young again! Make me young again!

I have to keep pedaling, even if I'm going downhill. Navidson didn't stop, and neither will I. Even when the door closes, we have to break through. Because what is on the other side is unfathomable. And a thousand miles across dunes to get there.

I like to think about small amounts of water, and how much like oceans they are to ants, and how big our "oceans" must be to us, and how small they are to Scaraby. But, I don't see how it can end with Scaraby. Things get bigger forever, and there is no ruler of all of it. There can't be.


Who was that?

You see? I have completed more than I have in any other one day! I am making progress. Soon it will be now.

I love you all my children of the

All goes according to plan.

Sometimes I wonder about whether things are predetermined. Of course they are, but a few of us are able to break free of it. I haven't been able to yet, but I'm working on it. Get back to me, before I leave.

Nothing can stop what must happen, because I haven't broken free. Nothing can change the mind of Scaraby, because it rules over me. But I don't oppose it. It has been kind to me. It has given me priceless gifts. Numerous and eccentrically, sickeningly miserable. I don't deserve them. I still don't know what I did to deserve them. And I owe it to Scaraby to carry out its will. Try to understand.

I think I will.

Intime you will understand, and maybe you, someone will be in this same situation. You cannot dissapoint the one who gives you the music. It only chooses a few, and it chooses carefully. Why it chose me I am only beginning to understand. I love it. I am grateful to sacrifice anything for Scaraby.

Dream about me.

Who made me?

And why?

What kind of box did the maker keep my mold in? Or is there even a maker? I made myself. I'm married to myself.

I saw my mold, and it was beautiful. Ringlets, white doll skin. Ceramic. Porcelain. Eyes like glistening honey. I have never been stung by a bee. The nose-imperfectly lovely. Hands formed especially to scatter and crawl over white ivory blocks. And reflective deep black. High forehead. Swan neck. Ears turned out to the wind to hear opportunity calling me, to hear Scaraby.Body small and curved. But long tapered extremeties to reach out to insects and plant life, long but gentle. Such a wonderful mold. And after so long it no longer looks like it did when I first came through.

I want to go home.

And I am. Scaraby says so.

When I leave,.......write here what you thought I might have said at this point because I don't remember.

I have to get out of here. Shit do I have to escape. I can't take this anymore. I can't take all of them looking. Him looking. He is a filthy liar and I fucking hate him. Like hell you don't look. Like hell, you dirty fuck. I don't want anything to do with you anymore. I oughta punch you in your robust proboscis for every time you said you didn't look. You dirty son of a bitch. There's no such thing as a good, happy person. I fucking hate you. I wish I had been dead a long time ago.

Now I have nothing to wait for.

Everything I needed to do has been done. I've seen enough to know that this world is a heaping pile of damp garbage in the shape of a TV screen. Fuck you kids.

Tell Kevin this is all his fault.

Come on, Spirit Guide, let's go find Scaraby.

I'm going to take a kodak of this place that housed me for 17 years. I hope it comes out. I'll have to ask Scaraby the point of sending me here. My music didn't do jack shit. Maybe 100 people heard it. Maybe 7 people remember it. Maybe 1 person cares. I hope I get my old mold back. I hope Scaraby is pleased. I hope someone remembers me. I hope all the movie theaters in the world burn to the ground. I have to remember to kick the Hollywood sign before I walk out. You poor stupid humans. You look to people faking it for idols. Faking fucks. Burn forever. And for the few of you who know true happiness, follow me. The earth can implode.

This is finally over.

I still don't know what to say. I am leaving for true life. You people in your sick bubble-I have nothing to say. I now know how small this place is.

SO long and thanks for all the fish.


"good morning! and, in case I don't see ya, Good afternoon, Good evening, and Good night!"

-----Truman, upon leaving his world.

06 Jun 2003 Emily NAMES

Those are all my names. But nobody calls me by them anymore.

If love is not shared, I can still see affection, it lifts me up to his face, towering above me. My end may be too soon. It will be in a matter of days. This is what I leave you with. Believe when it happens. Make the dissonant fade.

The sea burns. I think of Morla. I think of what I've lost. I can bring it back. Snails, swallowing my tears. I was thanking people. I want to be young again! Kilgore, give me the apple of everlasting life!

I want to thank some of you. I cannot thank all of you.

Thank you Vonnegut.
Thank you Kilgore Trout
Thank you Dwayne Hoover
Thank you Bear
Thank you Thom
Thank you Oliveros
Thank you Kevin
Thank you Mozart
Thank you Mr. Danielewski
Thank you Chemistry Teacher
Thank you Josie
Thank you Zampano
Thank you Johnny Truant
Thank you Navidson
Thank you Karen
Thank you Mum
Thank you Mogwai
Thank you Galadriel
Thank you Emily
Thank you Star
Thank you Ryan
Thank you Rasputin
Thank you Colormist
Thank you Scaraby.

If anything, this is all true.

If I'm going to finish, I'll have to hurry. I have only a few weeks left. Scaraby became lost for a little while, and I saw the end. Oliveros helped me find it.

When I leave, miss me. Cry into the grass. Drop that phone. Sleep on the floor. Dream about me. That yellow will never see again. She will be blind. She will fill her eye sockets with rain-soaked grass. Walk under a hood of deep red. Fall to the ground. The sand grains will wash over you, forming a dune. Eventually a desert forms over your yellow vines. I write my name in the sand.

Pack your things, we're walking in the hallway. We'll keep walking until we find something. It may take forever. It may not. But we cannot stay here. Here is where we will find nothing. Come on. Drop that phone. We'll sleep on the floor. We'll sing into the walls. We'll grow rain grass in the floor. If we walk without rhythm, we won't attract the worm. The worm is a leak. The worm is us, like Holloway. We've got to stay away from Holloway.

The abyss is what comes after. When I think of Scaraby, I see four colored keys. Red, Yellow, Blue, Green. Red, blood. Blue, Salt Tears. Green, your Rain bathed grass hair. Yellow-we will not speak of the yellow here. We do not know the yellow. The yellow is faded. The tears washed the yellow away. Do you understand!? Away!


You fail to notice. I'm heading for the door. Key one goes in. Yellow. Key two goes in. Green. Key three goes in. Blue. Key four goes in. Red.

We'll stain those walls.
06 Jun 2003 Emily I have fallen back down the stairs. Where do the farandolae get their music? From God. And what is God? Scaraby, the book. And who wrote the book? I am writing it now. This is all so horrible. But the only exit is the last page, and I haven't gotten there yet.

Then how could I have seen the last page? If you turn the book upside down, the first page is the last page. Whatever I write must happen. And on the first page I wrote:
"We only weep because we see the future.....and it burns our eyes."

And because the book has been turned this way, the bginning is the end, and the end is the beginning. And so, we must learn to find joy in eternal death. I will, we will die, but the book will not. Books never die.

If I am writing the book of my eternal end, then somewhere inside must be the anti-"book" of my eternal birth-and that it-the thoughts, the music. The music and Scaraby are opposite and equal. Where the book ends the music begins. They need each other to continue in the infinite game, and the farandolae and the writing of the book, these words have set the cycle into motion.

Now that the cycle is understood, there is no need to discuss it any longer, in this amount of depth. I may say the word "scaraby", but I will not give any further explanation. That is over.
Listen: Scaraby the original was not a book. It was what I saw coming. I loved it. I will repeat it here-for if the second Scaraby is to be complete, it must contain the first Scaraby.

{First Scaraby] complete with number names and asterisks



Outside splatters of wet rain enveloped the air. Hot steam rose from the tops of people's heads. Wandering aimlessly under a cold rainbow, I wondered if this was of even the slightest importance to the story. Nit even sa story, the infinite game. Deciding yes, for everything is of importance to the game, I reached into my coat pocket for a smoke. Empty.
"Damn," I said, turning my eyes up to the dawn. There a fish smiled in my general direction. Every morning he came. Comma.
Days passed. The moon glinted inside your eye. Ages ago, a gian frying pan in the sky meant the world to you. Such a thing was love in the sky with a frying pan. Such a thing.
Turning away, I was flying into myself armed only with a vague sense of dissatisfaction and angst, which proved well. Well perhaps to a half starved child underneath my window. I shut him out.
But could you have known?


That was a day. To my understanding, you were anything but here. Everything was the same. I thought I'd never make it back. I picked a few hot flowers from the pavement. Honking all the time. Keep going. You only told me how to get there.
If anyhthing, this is all true. If you do not believe it, it is not going to happen. I went outside for a time. The sun was crying/ It was fatal to think you'd stay. I wouldn't. Nobody would. But even if you did, the game would continue. Agreed.

I want to know why the cat hated you so much. Perhaps I threw her at you too fast. You smelled interesting. Enough about me. But why six hours? Searching for a book that didn't exist, in a tall hill. But it was there. Now it pounds. The person was too small for such a feet. That's why they were all laughing. I was the only one who didn't.
My face is a scowl. But the light in front of it. That stupid cat. Taking a leak was its last refuge. Don't look at me like that. In that fashion. Scraping. Didn't even clean itself. Time to call once more. I shall return momentarily.
At first the small shortening of the noise sparked hope, but nothing. Yes you've reached. We're not home right now. A brief message. Futile.


If they don't see me, I will attempt. You put into me such loss. A pang of rings would put forth such ecstacy, even if it is not what I wanted. Tempting. Tonight was not happening yet. But the screen was sitting on the sill. A path is being worn into the earth. Twenty. Remember? Do not remind me. Please come.
Time is running too fast, soon I will not have wanted it at all. To bring you here, that is. Plentiful grass. Sun dried, rain bathed grass, is the top of your head. It is shining. But I wouldn't eat it.
Sould I? No, shouldn't I? What is a window to you? Happiness, if something beautiful I see through it. You, possibly twice.
I need that empty space occupied.
Is all I wanted.
Such a blend that day. I Know I did it without you having to ask first.


This is wrong. What have I done? I shall try only again. I can only hope the yello has faded. You don't respond/ Why? Fifteen minutes. And again. In don't often. All I know is grass. My grass. You promised.
This note followed hot red sauce and a car ride home. Why does it mean nothing now? Anticipation I always said, was the highlight. True. Still true. You were always there before. It was too much, I ponder. Now a day has finally passed. All past responses erased, for the future to dream about. I attempt. All is not lost. But tonight, yes.


Oh joy of worlds. I can fathom it. One won't harm me. Alive. He is alive. Before two it cannot sing. However, suspicion will arise if for too long it is held apart. Oh I cannot worry. While a fat bird empties song noises into the air, ow can I worry? Tonight I will sleep well, thoughts of that one, only, I shall see again. No. Opposites. It is a good time for it now. That note will transform into a new. It was not too late for you. No, he would not. He is angry. All alone in a forbidding place. He is welcome.
No thing should be thought on for too long. The door is open and waiting. I opened it.


I should go and get it now. I have. What is the sum of our worries? A note. The note will change. The beetle is lost, but I took him into my palm, a world to shelter it from the storm. He is hostile toward you. He tried to kill you. He is gone now. Those books were the victims of the wrath. Now to listen......
Dissonant fade, saccharine, oh it cannot be stopped. Penetrating from it so suddenly, like a beam through the window. I was reading the gloomy book on a sh morning. yes and I had to stop. I have heard this before, my anthem. Now pining for what it already has. I do it. I have it.
Still, it has its own will.


Now the confidence. I know who I am. It rushes past itself with contagious and unexpeced victory. It stops to ponder. You are here. And you were! I didn't think it would be. I told earlier that if I beleived it, it would happen. It happened, but I didn't believe it. True, always true. Why is the anticipation after the deed? I know you better than I thought.
Now I know exactly what to do.
Again fifteen. You will be on time. The notes will need so calm themselves so I can speak. Shhh....
Quiet! He arrives!


I am only pretending. The number nine? Why is it always something? That note is there only to remind me. Time. Nonsense. To a looker, that's what it is. To a seer it is all the reason in th world. Don't abandon your life.
Not quiet yet. I've forgotten again. Five. How can a person sleep so much? Perhaps I will pursue in an hour. This is the last day. Are you sleeping? And so on. Well how long does it take to get situated? You enrage me.
Now, I am a looker. Waiting.....WAITING for the pang. I'll speak after half of one. What are you waiting for? Nonsense.


Still. If I believe it. What is it for? You are making me sad. I'd do not do this. No. Not even now. It's been five. But since you came I believe it. Don;t go back to sleep. Pursue is all I can do. No success.
I hate you. What is happening there? How is the weather? It is hot, stuffy, you cannot breathe. Get up, get water. Switch a knob, the winter will come out of a vent.
Whine. Oh oity you. This is nonsense. You've fallen again. I hate, no. Pang, pang. Please. Oh somber, agitated agony.

* * * * * * *
This is what it is. I am in control, now. I will do what you did. Ornate birds have flown in and are speaking tongues to the trees. Answer? Iwill be early.


This is what it is. It is what it always was. What it was, was continuous. All along, fear was the turn. But prevailing was normal life. I have lied. I do not know if it has amounted to anything. As long as he is on the other side, all is not lost.

That is the ending of all worries. It is a tragedy that I cannot see it. A am stilla looker, after all. If this goes well, this is the end. Pursue, i have won. But only this part. This game cannot really be won, ina sense. As long as it continues, I will keep the game alive. And I have succeeded in my pursuits this far. Oh, hopeful needing. Oh, unrequited insight. This is the sm of all my wants and needs and thoughts.
Ending is what this is. I end us with this, believe what you will. And believe when it happens.


....and that is Scaraby, from start to finish. As I have said, parts of the first Scaraby have been read in poems, in emotions, but never as a whole. No one should ever read it as a whole. Only, I the author. And this second Scarby shall only be read when I am gone. If the book exists as a whole, I cannot. We deplete and complete each other. The music grows on its own, after being planted by Scaraby. It comes from Scaraby, but is not Scaraby.
I have changed.

06 Jun 2003 Emily Love Emily and the Machine as Scaraby

.This is not like I had hoped this day to be. This is not how I had hoped this night should be. Indulgent, trying too hard to please the one that cannot be pleased. I need words, from him. One holds such a wealth of friendship, but is a miser. The other gives his wealth to everyone, and I have too much to hold. It spills everywhere. We only weep because we see the future. Happening altogether, in a whole, and it burns our eyes. Our ears hear snaps and knocking. On what? Remember the window? It's still there. It still opens of its own accord. I opened it.

The yellow has not faded. The wound that it caused faded, but never healed. The words ripped the soft flesh apart, I writhed in agony. Promises.

The night-this night, only a series of yet unbroken promises. Night butter. Pressing, brushing aginst, wishing for the impossible. This night ending in dry tears. I soak the grass with them. What more of this night? This night has not happened yet. Please leave me now with my thoughts.

The discolored place is no longer in my mind. Let it go. My spider fingers still crawl and sing on the machine. Is it a machine?

It makes me play the machine. But I am happy to do it. In exchange for my hands, it gives me such beautiful, longful thoughts. I put the thoughts on the machine, and everyone praises me for it. They don't know They can't. No one understands it but me. But that is because it has chosen me. It has always loved me, even from the first time I set eyes upon the machine. It is the only one I am sure I shall never lose. If I did, I wouldn't be. Simple.

No one wants the sadness, but I have learned to embrace it, with open arms. I use my self to comfort the sadness that comes to me. I am its protector. I heal it, and in return, it heals me. It will never end. We need each other. We need it. We have it.
When it ends, the dissonant fade may not have resolved. It is blurry to our eyes now, but it stings a little bit. That is how we know. Underneath the sadness, is a solemn knowing, a solemn acceptance of what shall be.

As I have said before, after two years, the yellow has still not faded. It was hidden, yes, for a while, but it came back. It came back.

When I'm not thinking about it, I can still feel it. And when it is harboring in me, it is unbearable. I want it to go away. I want her to go away. I want to go away, from here. From myself. I want to go somewhere away from all of the people. The maybe the yellow will feel sorry, for a moment. I hate that yellow. From the very pit of my soul, I hate. I wish the yellow would drown in me. Choking, sputtering, I push the yellow down, down. Sleep. Never come back. The sadness and I are in control now. You are not welcome here. I will guard the gates all my life, however long it may be.

And at other times, the dissonant fade lasts only a moment. Things fit. He speaks. I hear. Happiness.

A web, a net of spinning humid strings bothered me before, but there's nothing I can do about it. I do not mind. Each string holds beads of tiny moisture. And when the web comes together it protects me from harsh things. Not many have a web like I do. Theirs are silken, thin, they fall pathetically in lush masses at the shoulders. My web is like a wild forest vine, growing and curling every day.

A woman I know is not the same as she was years ago. I see them both at the same time, looking at me. It is longing, but dignified. As if a person reaching out and turning the head all at once. She is halfway. Her hope died in a white place. I will become her someday. I am an old soul. I feel you.

I was in a house recently like the one in my book. That closet-just slightly away from the sofa. To my left. If I were to open it, would I see that horrible staircase? I never got a chance to open the closet door. Those people seemed friendly enough. Those people seemed healthy and worriless-but were they hiding the hallway, that 5 and a half minute hallway?

Days are long, weeks and months are short. I feel like this is all leading up to something, and, while I am being ambiguous, I know what it is. I know where I end. I end with myself, I have taken myself away. Today, someone told me something was supposed to happen, something I have wanted to happen for a very long time. It hasn't happened. It won't happen. And that is why things must end. At least the thoughts will stay behind. I wonder-If I end, does IT end? Did I create it? Or will it move to another instrument? I would like to hope that in grieving, it will vow never to transmit those thoughts ever again. I was its sole instrument. I was the only one who understood it. Yes, I would like to think that.

I suppose these writings will end with me. No one ever read Scaraby. Parts have been seen by some, but they know not where it came from. I think others might be confused by it. But I know of one who would feel it. It is he whom Scaraby is about. He and I. He has it. He has me, for as long as I let him. But when these words end, he must let go. He may be able to console it. He doesn't believe in it now, but they will come together for my sake when I am gone. I can see.

This is nowhere near the end.

That book changed me. It is me, it knows me and all that I am afraid of That book owns us all. All of humanity. We will all meet our end with that book, I am sure of it.

It's like the sun is gone. Ristration isun cholstrien. Because life scares me to death. It's the only love that I've had. The only love. Ghosts in the photograph never lied to me. Every aircraft, every camera is a wish that, wasn't granted. A false memory would be everything. I'd be all of that.


Words never have the same effect as those thoughts on the machine. Or other machines like it. Machines with strings, buttons, knobs, holes.

Note, rise up. Climb the horrible staircase, rise. Who is following you? They have all abandoned you. I see you from another place. I watch you climb anyway, weeping. And when you get there, you find only a wall, a white wall going up forever. This is the end. Fall down.

And you, you dance. Up and down, around the others. You know not the hate they feel for you. It is envy. All they can do is listen. Keep dancing. The light trickles down their faces. Chortle, note, you climb a different staircase. This one goes in a neverending circle, and you find joy that there is no way out. You find joy in eternal death.

You are running down a softly lit hallway. Too fast to look around you, but slowly enough to rest in each step. You know what you are looking for, and you know that you will find it at the end of this hallway that loves you and needs you. keep running. I see it.

You are at the top of a graygreen hill. Mist and sorrow float in the air. You keep going, singing though no one hears. There is nothing here, only hills and darkening clouds, but you sing now and then, as if you can make out a beam of light. You realize it is only a mistake. Release.

You sing of unbounded hope. You make it grow.

But you, I cannot tell what you sing of. At times you seem entirely joyous in what you do not yet know. But then you contain such wisdom. Now you are naive, a small being gazing at the night.

You know what you must do. You feel the others. You are so happy, and are laughing about how foolish you once were. You sit alone, but content. You only need yourself.

You sing of an oncoming horror, but you are not afraid. You are thinking of what you will do, speaking of the terror calmly.

You are melancholic. You are walking through a small town, looking for friend, mumbling.

You are at your end, and you feel the last pains. You are telling the others to remember you. They were the ones that destroyed you. Fall down. Do they watch?

You have been hurt by one you trusted. You walk away, mumbling things you should have said a long time before. You leave a salty red trail behind you. The long gowns, tattered drag on the ground carelessly. You need healing, but you still brood on the events leading up to the wound. As you cradle it, you wonder if there is something that can heal you at all. You are thinking so much, you don't realize that you walk into the sea, never to return.

You are wishing aloud for the love of one who doesn't know you. Wishing will do no good. Rise from the bed and open the window. You may find what you need outside. You imagine the warmth of love, but are bitter about the emptiness of the one whose love you seek, and wonder why you need it so badly. You try to make things happen, you try to change the one. You turn toward the window. Go back in.

You are hiding from someone who needs desperately to find you.

You are telling stories from long ago. The others scarcely breath as you wave your hands about, recounting the past. You find hidden joy in this, as you are not really telling the past, but the future.

You are warning another of the tragedies of your past. You weep for a moment, and point in the wrong direction, unaware.

Someone is hurting you, but you do nothing to stop it. It hurts, but you fear the loss of the one you loved. Time passes, and though you remain with your other, you are completely alone. You imagine life away, in a wonderful fulfilling place, healing, but know you'll never have the courage to get there.

You wander through a bright forest, thinking of nothing in particular. You chirp uninhibited, spinning in circles, happy that you are alive at this moment, wanting nothing more than to cry and laugh in the same breath.

You are pondering your existence in a steange place. Others pass you, talking. You gaze in wonder. YOu rise to ask one of them who you are, but remember that you are invisible.

My life has such worth. I have such favor and affection in the eyes of those I love. It is sad that it must end the way it will. One of those I love, does not share love openly, we do not. But I find that not knowing whether the affection is shared is more of a thrill than having surplusses of it from the other, at times. Watching as I stand there between the two trees, telling myself I see a glance from the arched figure. Was it a glance, or an involuntary pivot of the head, and if it was a glance, was it planned, or whim? Are my whereabouts carefully dictated, to the second in his mind, or does this all happen by chance? I'd hate to know. But I love to pretend I'd love to find out. I think we both do. I think nothing will ever happen, and that is good enough for us, maybe better.

There is nothing to worry about. I have freed myself of it, by not mentioning it, to him or myself. Peace lies in silence, sometimes. Somtimes silent agony-which is not peace. But I have found it. The mitochindria gave it to me. The planet to them that is me they have loved enough to rid me of that burden. I wonder if they realize it. I wonder if they know I think of them, but I'd hate to know.

And how do we know they do not look down upon us and laugh with affection? Those brown green giants, deep in conversation with their own chloroplasts, maybe. We, who scamper around in search of food....we can't even talk to our mitochondrion.

I have begun to think that it is, dare I say, the collective voice of my mitochondria transmitting the thoughts to me for the machine. I have read a book about the Farandolae inside each mitochondrion who power them by singing-the singing must be the melodic thoughts it gives me-then it is not a seperate, larger being! It is the ones inside of me! I am one of the few who are able to communicate and understand the emotions of the farandolae in my mitochondria! Joy, hidden joy. This shall remain a secret, between us. No one would beleive us. Other composers claim the muse is only metaphorical, I know mine. Mine are a trillion times a trillion miniscule voices inside of each of my cells-they sing with me, through all that happens, and the thoughts must be a merging of our voices and emotions. I have much more, we have much more of a symbiotic relationship than most others. They need their thoughts put into audible music to have the will to go on-to help me live. It will be such a tragedy when we die.

Now that I know this, I will not fear the involuntary movements of my hands on the machine. It is only them, the cells in my hands.

She doesn't know why she closes the door. She only knows that the window has been left open this night! Door and window.
I leave the window open. But if there are rabbits in the window, stay out. The air blows out of the ceiling, the music spills into the room. I can only imagine myself outside of my closed door-what can I hear in there? I hear someone weeping.

I have begun the book again.It sought me out from under the others.While reading, I heard noises, outside the window but still disturbingly close, mimicing the sounds on my music tapes. A metallic tapping. A dull rising viola roar, crunching of grass. But I did not fear them. But I know the farandolae feared for me. The ring on the wall shone bright when the light went out. I turned away from it. It isn't there.

i keep thinking of that house I visited. And I saw the photo by Will Navidson. As I became the child the farandolae wept openly, causing me to sweat profusely as if I were under the ruthless white orb. I never want to see it again.
I hear the thoughts everywhere now. I hear them in other music. I see them in faces. the farandolae brought back a thought through my hands we haven't created in a long, long time. But foolishly, I pushed it away.

The yellow has not faded, but I have locked the gates that guard my treasure. So far the yellow hasn't tried getting in. Yellow is a wretched color-the color of urine, fear, and Scaraby.

I have not ever addressed what is exactly the Scaraby. It is not it, or them. It is not him, it is not the wretched yellow. It is not me.

It is the staircase.

It is the hallway.

It is everything but something-yellow. The yellow is the fear and everything else is.....
else is.....

Music. No, the book. No, the thing that will become of me. Yes, that is Scaraby. Scaraby is my ending. Scaraby is my last page. And before reading the book, I peeked at the last page, and that is how I know how I will end. Tear out the page, say the farandolae, burn it withour eyes. No. It has already been written. It has already been read. The consequence for looking at the last page is that I can do nothing to change it.

This is nowhere near my end.
06 Jun 2003 just a girl Happy Birthday Felicia... :)

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