Essays on Death and Suicide - Waiting for Death :: Personal Narrative Writing

Personal Narrative- Waiting for DeathShe suspects she has only ever so had one true affair with the knife, and all those since have been meager attempts at regurgitation, petty rivalries borne of intention and tainted by the anticlimax of re creation. She sits daily observance the synthetic roses, virulent with red, fluoresce persistently on the porch. Moth bitten, with broken stems and a hairline crack running the length of the ceramic pot that marks their transport on the brick step. She sits observing their activity, disassociates herself from the solemn sermon their blushing heads deliver, ducking in the wind. Waiting for something to happen. She has lost, or perceives she has lost (and looks for death on the horizon because she fears she has lost) the superpower to make things occur. How useful youth was in the day to day creation of happenings. Now she has displaced the seasons, and the pleasant expanse of nothingness, a featureless backdrop, assimilates itself to her emoti onless countenance, as she welcomes the weather. Her fathers house, in the Polish town. Its healthy walls, its strong deck up structure. She found it easily, buried knee-deep in the liquid winter, and enquired of the locals as to whether anyone soon resided there. They regarded her, not more obliging than they were wary, with the heavy, knowing gaze of people carrying the bill of the past both pervasive and private. Her accent was rusty, the native tongue had great since been liberated a stray cut loose from its derelict ethnical confinement. She spoke in dislocated dialogue the secure, prosaic language of dinner parties and familial get-togethers. Of pleasantries exchanged between well-wishing strangers. Broken German from an bare(a) text-book. How she hated the sluggish tongue, the barren vowels that tripped reluctantly from the lips, imprisoned by the teeth. The English language seemed a positive ballad of elegant syllables. She had wished never to detect these sunken verbs again. She had tried to forget it all, but they spoke with a hammy flourish, demanding that she remember, their tone didactic and intense with purpose. Those primitive villagers, deeply set in their archaic ways, the spit in the palm. Such old gestures seem a blessing on unimaginative bones, bones of gypsy ancestry intent in incense and adorned with elaborate jewelry. She briefly caught the delicate, sickly twine of patchouli and lavender, an odor that seeped from their pores, traveled on the breath and suggested unrelenting visitation and wisdom and infinite strength.