Actions are words. Sometimes the things we do scream, make themselves clear with eloquence. Or the things that we don't do speak in a low voice of the things we fear. To do is to speak, too, just like the couple of lovers who finds in the eyes of one another the verses that will never be written.
Strange acts, adverse declarations, coincidences, unforeseen events, all answer to a code. During a hurricane a something or someone tries to say to us something and our response, fear, confirms that a communicative cycle exists.
Evil and madness, both expelled from our society, the poisons responsible for everything we can imagine, are alienated languages perpetually ignored; we use them as an excuse, as deposits of our faults, and we do not understand their real nature: they are both amongst us and are a part of our life. Evil was inside Mother Theresa of Calcutta, and madness dictates me, partially, these lines. There is nothing wrong in admitting that we are not gods and that we do not live in Arcadia.
This decency, this conviction of which we must be perfect is what it makes us link the self-murderer with the madman or with the diabolically possessed. And this is what turns us not only into ignoramuses, but, curiously, into crazy, diabolical people.
The killer, exactly disdained from our society, exercises violence against fate, whereas the suicidal furthers fate, and, without violence, he exercises his will without imposing against nature. Because it is stupid to deny that it is the fate of many to put a bullet inside their brains, so, clearly, it has happened and it will keep on happening.
The suicidal has a problem linking his emotions with the world. There is a gap between him and the mass of phantom references that forms reality. He cannot speak. Then he discovers that he can pronounce only one strident word that will make him get to the other shore. And he commits suicide. The death, the big gap, is his noisy answer to a world full of silences.
Us romantics must admit that in this world there is always an answer. But the rest of the world must accept also that answers are rarely enough, and that, definitively, to be left with no answers is also an answer.
Let's not condemn the suicidal. If their world doesn't work it's because we don't work. Let's hear what a suicide has to say to us before relegating it to the margins of the forbidden, of the despicable and the irrational. Perhaps this action that speak says to us twhat is it that is wrong in all of us. Perhaps its eloquence will, in the end, leave us all completely speechless.
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