Suicide (Latin suicidium, from sui caedere, to kill oneself) is the intentional taking of one's own life. Many dictionaries also note the metaphorical sense of "willful destruction of one's self-interest".
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Some see suicide as a legitimate matter of personal choice and a human right (colloquially known as the right to die movement), and maintain that no one should be forced to suffer against their will, particularly from conditions such as incurable disease, mental illness, and old age that have no possibility of improvement. Proponents of this view reject the belief that suicide is always irrational, arguing instead that it can be a valid last resort for those enduring major pain or trauma. (...) A narrower segment of this group considers suicide something between a grave but condonable choice in some circumstances and a sacrosanct right for anyone (even a young and healthy person) who believes they have rationally and conscientiously come to the decision to end their own lives. (...)
in Wikipedia
"They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice... that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person."
(Arthur Schopenhauer)
"The Way Out" or "Suicidal Ideation" by George Grie
Suicide Note
"You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life" - Artaud
"At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous
Better, despite the worms talking to the mare's hoof in the field; better, despite the season of young girls dropping their blood; better somehow to drop myself quickly into an old room. Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire. Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell. I will be a light thing. I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens. Life is half enlarged. The fish and owls are fierce today. Life tilts backward and forward. Even the wasps cannot find my eyes. Yes, eyes that were immediate once. Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals. Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots. And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head. Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus. O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death. This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together. I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire. I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb. But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him. So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this. Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone. I do not even expect my mother's mouth. I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies. Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New York City will not mind. At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.
Anne Sexton
