Discussion The last spring

[BasqueClown]

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

T.S Elliot wrote that. Sure, you heard before and, since we're approaching april, another spring will arive (For all of us who lived above Tropic of Cancer). Probably a few people read the entire poem (Who actually have 4 parts and not it's a single, stream of consciousness, poem).
For me, april will not be a cruel month. It will be the month of freedom. I'll enjoy the radiant green forest of my province, have a pleasant interaction with the nature, and seeing the sky above the mountain range. And my last spring.
I don't know if I'll ctb in this week, or in a month, or right after I publish this thread (The last probable).
There are the facts:
- I'm not scared of dying (And by extension any afterlife or hell or whatever) ;
- I made my decision to die by suicide in all my mental capacity, since I'm in a strict medicine regime (Asenapine and Duloxetine), so I'm not deranged or possessed by my worst schizo stage (Since I believe is more reasonable than being Dissociative identity disorder as my original diagnosis) ;
- I give up about life, so I accept that I fucked up with my decisions and I aware that drugs and previous suicide attempts killed most of my hope;
- That I doubt to return to a normal life as teacher, or translator, or whatever.

So if you don't see me AFTER april 26, I'm dead.
I started to visit this forum to understand my suicidal thoughts and why of my attempt, but circumstances blocked any desire of recovery, seriously.
Lastly, I want to finish with another poem, both in English and its original (French):

Tristesses de la lune
Charles Baudelaire

Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.



Sadness of the Moon

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,
Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions
Who fondles with a light and listless hand
The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,
Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons
And casts her eyes over the white phantoms
That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,
She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,
With the iridescent reflections of opal,
And hides it in his heart afar from the sun's eyes.

 

[FuneralCry]

Thank you for sharing the poem, I hope that when the time is right for you to leave you find the freedom that you are searching for.