The weird thing about my suicidality, I’ve been thinking, is that if I was someone else, if I was 50% of the western population (if not more), I would still want to blow my brains out.

All the pain I’ve suffered and the lack of hope, at this point has led me to just want to be beautiful. I want to make the world’s heart ache for just one moment.

A good film, a beautiful song, can do that. Why not a life? Why not a death?

I can’t be ordinary anymore. It’s been too much. Dying can make me exceptional.

When I last attempted I wrote “Brooks was here” on my prison wall. I was alluding to The Shawshank Redemption and the heart breaking suicide in the film. In order to attempt I had to tie a belt around a bar that goes across the window. I couldn’t tie the bedsheets directly to it because to get the entire edge of the sheet through made it too thick. My belt fit just right. Then I tied the bed sheet around the belt and made a noose. And before I tied it around my neck, I wrote “Brooks was here” and I was saddened that no one would notice or even understand what I meant. It felt like an amazing film that no one would pay attention to because they were to busy watching the The Avengers. A beautiful work of art that doesn’t really exist; like the proverbial tree in the forest that I’ve assured the world, in absolutely no way makes a sound.

And maybe that’s what life feels like right now. An artist with no audience. Have I become so delusional so as to think that no one understands my genius?

A beautiful suicide still requires an audience if it is to have the desired impact. Suffering aloud in a world of small talk has to mean something.

Pray that I have a good death. A good one hit wonder.