One day the mayor woke up and realized that he was no longer enamoured with the glitter of his fancy fetters; his neck tie had become a noose, his head had become an anchor and every thought was a bag of cement. Where a smile came so easily, it now looked painfully forced. It’s as if he had to stretch the skin back from his lips and mouth using the muscles in his forehead, it would accentuate the elliptical shape of his eyes, sweat would dampen his brow and his teeth would surface out like old tired relics. He looked like a badly drawn caricature of the Cheshire cat.
He was tired of the slow felo-de-se of wine and smoke. His suicide letter was dispersed as leaflets across an already litter ridden city. It read:
“I’m afraid of death, only when I’m alive and I haven’t been alive in years,
not all dead things deserve funerals, the only dead things that we mourn are the dead things we love but why haven’t we hosted hourly funerals for our dead dreams. We should have hosted funerals for our youths and childhoods but I think the Jews call those Bar Mitzvahs.
I’m not afraid of heights, only of falling.
No, I’m not afraid of falling, I’m afraid of throwing myself off (I already have)
I’m not afraid of throwing myself off, I’m afraid of the mess I’ll make when I hit the ground (literally and figuratively)
I’m not afraid of the mess , I’m afraid of death
and because of that I think it’s time to shake of the fetters of fear and parliament…
This is my political suicide note….”