Every life is a tragedy waiting to happen, in the end ‘tis only luck and grit that sees us through; a small dose of the right stuff is enough to change the course of a dream to a reality (even tiny) and then what? The sun may blaze and kiss the necks of lovers, may shine on history and let us know how lucky we are to be where we are but that does not mean it’s the same for everyone. Some awkward moment can be enough to throw a person down, then where are you? I’m scrabbling for words here, trying to ascertain the fine line between hope and despair, the electric charge that causes someone to throw themselves in front of a train in the full knowledge of what will happen, willing it so, surrounded by natural beauty, the delicate calls of birds at their heels, the shy temptation of Roe deer etc etc. How could they determine to miss that? That is their extreme, pulling at them, making them know their insides better than any other stimulus. I’ve been there, but I‘ve never been that close. I know the awkward anxiety, the waves of unfathomable despair, the daily shock of it and the hold that it can manifest, tight, leather-like grip, but I always found a way out. I was fortunate. Here, in this corner of Britain, on the line between Suffolk and London they choose to do it on a regular basis. Why? And who are they that would sacrifice life; these sorrowful souls desperate for release? Are they young tragedians lost in some final ACT of teen misunderstanding; lost in some emotive puzzle that they believe cannot be answered? Or are they gone beyond life’s youthful hope and found only repetition and turmoil, too many subjects left to balance?
Who has any right to judge? In their seeming cowardice they take a brave and humane decision to stop their pain, as any animal would. The tragedy lies in the loss of hope and in the means of their departure, the foisting of its appearance on others, innocents on a carriage and a driver who is not expecting anything other than signal failure to be a cause for concern on a Sunday afternoon. That it is so public makes the tragedy the concern of everyone, because it is also in some way an exhibition, a final cry for proof of existence.
Kestrels hover and the land twitches, and spring revels in itself.
I once had a girl or should I say . . . ?
We no longer (as Santideva states in The Bodhicaryavatara) ‘perfume’ our minds, they are not given that tiny grace or gift. Nor do we allow the perfume to be imperfect, it is the hope of perfection (unattainable) that has the ability to destroy us, and we are frenetic in our attempts to keep things perfect. Cannot be. One carries one’s karma each day (it cannot leave) and the karma can be changed by so many things but too many things are dependent on something or someone else and therein lie the routes to agony and despair. I am not one to judge. I can only receive the sadness at the extent to which someone had to go to relieve their agony. But I have to wonder and concern myself with the repetition of the act in one location; what is the fuel (to use a topical metaphor) for this suicide engine?
Who has any right to judge? In their seeming cowardice they take a brave and humane decision to stop their pain, as any animal would. The tragedy lies in the loss of hope and in the means of their departure, the foisting of its appearance on others, innocents on a carriage and a driver who is not expecting anything other than signal failure to be a cause for concern on a Sunday afternoon. That it is so public makes the tragedy the concern of everyone, because it is also in some way an exhibition, a final cry for proof of existence.
Kestrels hover and the land twitches, and spring revels in itself.
I once had a girl or should I say . . . ?
We no longer (as Santideva states in The Bodhicaryavatara) ‘perfume’ our minds, they are not given that tiny grace or gift. Nor do we allow the perfume to be imperfect, it is the hope of perfection (unattainable) that has the ability to destroy us, and we are frenetic in our attempts to keep things perfect. Cannot be. One carries one’s karma each day (it cannot leave) and the karma can be changed by so many things but too many things are dependent on something or someone else and therein lie the routes to agony and despair. I am not one to judge. I can only receive the sadness at the extent to which someone had to go to relieve their agony. But I have to wonder and concern myself with the repetition of the act in one location; what is the fuel (to use a topical metaphor) for this suicide engine?
No comments:
Post a Comment