Soliloquy, charcoal+chalk; the truth about suicide. by pauldrobertson

Soliloquy, charcoal+chalk; the truth about suicide. by 

Soliloquy. Charcoal and white pastel. My former companion, lover and friend, sat for me though she really wanted to go outside and play in the sprinklers.
160×120 cm

She is so still, so still.

The way she sits with such delicacy, perfect and human.

Exquisite… she is so breathtakingly beautiful that it hurts me to look at her.
It makes me ache for her. For her sadness that I know so well; For the scars upon her sweet skin. For her, for her.
For her.
That this moment shall ever have to end.

And here is the truth about suicide, or one of the greatest of truths, one perhaps of the truest.

ah… speak truth and long and exhale hard into the empty hearts the softness of the night



I beg some breaths from you. I want your attention for a few minutes. Let me open my heart and my wounds for you.
There are, according to me, four kinds of suicides:

The first suicides I will discuss I will not dwell on. They are the suicides of the very young, and the very foolish. They are also a real component of our contemporary lives. The child or the fool imagines themselves at their own funeral. The absolute nature of what they do is lost to them, and they go blinded and innocent before their own bloody hands. A fool ends.
I can’t help but think as their last heart’s blood drains from their bodies, does it occur to them that they won’t be THERE when everybody is fucking sorry?
“No wait, I…” and breath shudders last. How utterly foolish and tragic. A messy comedy. Another life stolen from us.

I believe that the most common is as a result of a momentary, even if recurring, definitive madness of pain.
I think that… the despair takes us in sudden gulps and sucks the sanity from us; the frail bubble that it is bursts for a bloody but succinct, specifically human succession of moments. Twenty minutes. An hour. Long enough.
The pain… spears and punctures what we are. Our ecstasy of existence, the supremacy of our essential drive to live is swept into the wilding deep by it in savage sudden stabs. The pure violence of it, that something of this scale can even exist within us fills and covers us until that is what we ARE.
Terror is the answer, our reeling cramping minds’ answer. A devastating shudder of fear locks so many into death.
It is not the pain itself. It is that the pain may continue.
It is terror of the pain, you see. That it will not end. That this will go on. The moment cannot be prolonged, for it is untenable. It must be ended. The means are visceral, ancient and brutal.
Because, in the end, so are WE.

Probably the rarest of the four is that of a reasonable, rational suicide. Hannibal, old and surrounded, finally, by Roman soldiers, taking poison in a final “fuck you!”
Socrates, perhaps. Yes. A considered death. And ultimately more successful than he could possibly have imagined. Cleopatra. Kurt Kobain. No I should not count that here… I think it belongs to one of the other categories. He had no need to die. The nazi party members. Cheating responsibility; crawling despicable craven men that they were, it was still something that could be constructed from reason in the sewer of their minds.
People who are in the last stages of their life and in useless pain, who wish to die with clean reason and simple inarguable logic. Unless you count religion in that particular choice, of course. Hang on, I said logic and reason didn’t I?

This last is perhaps a combination of the latter two, I suppose. It is when we have fought, and fought, and fought, throughout our lives. It is when this fight has returned us, old with years and pain: to a point that we can, finally, recognise. When it returns us, beaten and old, to the point at which it began. When we know, in a chill that drops us to our knees –

We know that we have been here before.
We know the way. We know this suffering, we know it intimately with each scratch burn and old bruise on our bodies. We stretch out our aching fingers, recognizing, in extremis, in terminal horror, upon the sharp cutting stones of the steps of this road our own footsteps.
Some courage is only truly born of ignorance, and it was armed with this – with this innocent expectation of an eventuality ending in salvation, in succour – that we walked this road. Not knowing never suspecting how it could how could it lead back again all the long hard hours back to its inception.
It is then that exhaustion complements pain and despair. The wanderer, the bruised and weeping one, succumbs to a fatigue of despair and understanding.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky said that tiredness is a kind of madness.
It is here that his words find form, here that the iron spike of exhaustion finds its ultimate, deadly purpose.

In this, this last kind of suicide is offered a combination of the second and the third kinds. It is a rational suicide, but it is a madness of pain. In this final act they join hands. And they kill us.

I have been writing my novel, which is so exciting i made my cat throw up last chapter I finished. Um… I spun her around saying “YAY!” too much. so i haven’t been painting anywhere near as much as i like to. (I’ve also been realllllllly sick. oh well.) Apart from painting I have a side-line in cat straightening – an uncommon skill that i learned in a dzong in Bhutan.

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  • rightasrain
    rightasrainover 4 years ago

    You write beautifully, even about the darkest things. Thank you.

  • thank you instead !

    – pauldrobertson

  • thanks one more time ms hillie

    – pauldrobertson

  • Sarah Harris
    Sarah Harrisover 4 years ago

    utterly amazing work!

  • ah… thank you ms sarah :)

    – pauldrobertson

  • missmoneypenny
    missmoneypennyover 4 years ago

    Beautiful work

  • thank you ms miss moneypenny (affects sean connery accent for the rest of the day

    – pauldrobertson

  • Alison Pearce
    Alison Pearceover 4 years ago

    Powerful…and painfully vivid

  • thanks alison :):)

    – pauldrobertson

  • artisandelimage
    artisandelimageover 4 years ago

    bravo !
    my best, your host (francis).

  • thank you francis. it is a pleasure

    – pauldrobertson

  • Angela King-Jones
    Angela King-Jonesover 4 years ago

    Just beautiful!

  • thanks angela… it means a great deal more to me than i can say.

    – pauldrobertson

  • catwalk
    catwalkover 4 years ago

    very soulful …excellent

  • cheers catwalk :)

    – pauldrobertson

  • jacqleen
    jacqleenover 4 years ago

    I find the art itself, Quiet…Lonely, yet content and accepting of herself at this moment and time, as she is…
    It is truly STUNNING…her expression, tones and lighting are just magical…
    and I found your words, MOVING, Deep and very well expressed… and not being able to SEE the light at the end of all the pain does and can drive one to a darker place within where there is no escaping from, therefore making a simple thing as breathing unbearable…Breathing, the most fragile gift, the one we take for granted, yet it becomes a curse for some…LOVED everything you have created and written here…thank U for sharing.

  • thank you so much for taking the time to write sucha oassionate comment. i am myself moved at your words.

    – pauldrobertson

  • Magi5760
    Magi5760over 4 years ago

    Congratulations from your hosts at Art At Its Best!

  • thanks colin. i am honoured.

    – pauldrobertson

  • Lynn Hughes
    Lynn Hughesover 4 years ago

    hauntingly beautiful

  • thank you lynn. thank you very, very much. :)

    – pauldrobertson

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