The Manuscript of Departure

Tell me, how many people can one reach, in those final moments before death?

People take their own lives for the smallest of reasons, don't they? I've kept some letters over the past three years—each person who wrote them chose death for a different cause, but there's something remarkable about it...each letter bears its own singular truth.

It's astonishing, really. A little girl ended her life simply because her parents were divorcing. Just two lines of a note, that's all—"Why think so much about life? Is life itself not still?" That was it! What a strangely mature way of seeing the world, that child possessed.

A young man couldn't bear the shame of despair or failure, so he chose death instead. The reason is plain enough to see. Those who lost their fascination with life and picked the path of suicide—their number is not small; yet each of them was sufficiently wealthy. And then there are the dead who never had the one they loved, and so deemed life worthless—their count is hardly insignificant either.

Truly, life is merely an uncertain gift from God. Mystery lies folded within its every layer. I don't want to tell anyone in this world the real reason I'm leaving. In this final letter, you will never quite grasp the true cause of my death—I've written it so you cannot. From today on, you will never find me again.

Time feels so strange, bound as it is by invisible chains! Did I ever manage to believe in myself? This harsh truth alone transformed me into a weak person.

I remember—the first letter I gave you was not one of love, but of departure. Yet somehow, through regular contact with you, I suddenly began to write. Without even thinking how relevant any of this was to me, I fell into your deep love. Do you know, in those days I felt like the most beautiful-hearted person alive—every time I touched you with my deepest feelings.

Clearly, I lack the merit to truly have you in reality. With some measure of firm self-assurance, I savor the joy of creation.

I know one perfect definition of beauty—I learned it when I touched you. In your embrace, I imagined myself a deeply happy person. Was it all a mistake? It doesn't pain me to think—how much longer I might have seen the light! The pain comes only from this: I will never write again.

In life, certain decisions must be made against our own wishes—perhaps the greatest decision of all: to end it.

I raised both my hands before God's throne and asked for peace, and in return—did I not receive love instead?