My Plans for Suicide

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was a writer. In Kraków, people recall that he lived like a Franciscan monk, never ate too much, went everywhere by foot, and would lend any money he made on literature to others. He would chronically visit people and listen to them.

One evening, I asked myself the following question: “Aren’t twenty years of life enough for me? Do I really need to live longer?” And after a very brief moment, I replied to myself with vigour: “No I do not!”

I have, after all, very little hope that my state of nervousness and leg aches will ever subside, and if I am finally able to be happier with myself and more helpful to people than I’ve been. I would therefore be a fool if I were to stubbornly uphold my existence by continuing to overeat every day rather than stop at what I’ve already swallowed, chewed and digested.

Think of the all the benefits I will reap by prematurely taking leave of this world! Death will indeed liberate me from all my different faults, since I am unable to do that myself. I will finally experience blissful peace from my own conscience, and I’ve been longing for such peace for a long time.

No longer will my conscience blame me for filling my life with frivolous entertainment and trivial, albeit seemingly sincere, chats with other dawdlers. No longer will the awkwardness of my mind and goodwill pester me nor anybody else.

By drowning myself, I will reasonably avoid my

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Jan Stoberski:

was a writer. In Kraków, people recall that he lived like a Franciscan monk, never ate too much, went everywhere by foot, and would lend any money he made on literature to others. He would chronically visit people and listen to them.

Translation: Mark Ordon

Publish date: 11.12.2020

Also read:

Jan Stoberski:

was a writer. In Kraków, people recall that he lived like a Franciscan monk, never ate too much, went everywhere by foot, and would lend any money he made on literature to others. He would chronically visit people and listen to them.

The loss of a close friend is always extremely painful. If this friend happened to have four paws, like Bonzo, the bereavement even changes the way you view your two-legged acquaintances.

Bonzo was getting older and his sense of smell was getting worse. One afternoon, with my weak eyesight, I was able to spot a rabbit prancing about the fields close to our house, but he couldn’t feel it or see it, though he seemed to have been astutely and carefully scouting the area. He finally managed to catch sight of the rabbit. He ran off in pursuit, but he looked like an old man, legs shaking, who was trying to catch up with a strong young lad.

Also read:

I Lost a Friend

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