imagine what it feels like to hang

While solace can be found in the embrace of glory or the jaws of villainy, there is nothing more striking than the feeling of inconsequential unnecessary mediocrity. Living as a hero is by definition meritorious, while living as a monstrosity - well, it is better to be loathed and feared than forgotten.

feet swaying in the breeze

And yet to envision oneself hanging means to imagine the excruciating pain of suffocation, the choking edge of death's hemp fingers pressing into soft flesh dull in comparison to the glory of the pounding, writhing need for oxygen - legs flailing against insubstantial air, the same restricted air that is so absolutely essential for life - yet this was beyond recognition, for that pain was incomprehensible when compared to that of existence, at this particular juncture in time. A moment of violent suffering - and then, relaxation into eternity.

face black with blood

The mind, despite its cruel intimations, remains utterly self-preserving. There is no chance to return, it says, and the damage could be irreversible. Doubt lingers, festers, it takes on the shape of a guardian, a saint - preserve the mind; preserve your intelligence. It is clear that the individual cells wish to live, but they remain half-awake. They sleep once they are fed; they never unite towards a common goal, a unified whole - and so it is the same infestation of doubt that returns and quells any thought of risk, any desire, any passion, for these things interfere with mere survival.

what is that horrendous look upon the face - a smile? or a grimace

Better to dull the passions enough so that the energy of life is simply preserved, while spending enough to entertain the fantasy of suicide. Thus the mind is satisfied - it slovenly consumes what is presented to it, and when it ventures beyond it is quickly curbed. Dissatisfied with itself, the mind can only turn inward, and so the ultimate fantasy - to end this absurd cycle - takes root. But there is no end, for the fantasy itself is not illusory, but real - an object, the crowned desire of desires - the passion that satisfies, and destroys all other passions.

Wretched.