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“Thoughts on Suicide out of the Bleu” really was out of the blue. When I sat down to write it didn’t begin that way. At first it just meandered. I reigned it in once, then it just picked up and was gone. Someone I knew just committed suicide. This is what I meant to write yesterday. Closing my apartment door behind me, my exhalation was one of breathless exuberance. My sweaty clothing clung to me from my brisk walk home in the humid streets of my city. What had started out as a brief jont to the ATM, turned out to be a short exploration of my new grocery store across the street, a chat with a neighbor in said store, and an introduction to a rather assertive urban raccoon. I think if I were to have any notions of writing fiction, I found my first character. While out, I received a call requesting that I arrive to work 4 hours early the next day. This was okay with me, but did necessitate hurrying home and preparing for my work days right then. A fairly large wrinkle included wresting my bike out of its winter home stashed behind all manner of junk in my small apartment. As the door clicked shut and my right hand instinctively slid over the lock of the dead bolt, it came. A cool breeze flowed through my insides sending my little girl’s tummy to my toes. The forward motion of my hand over the lock continued across my adult body turning me westward into my greatroom. I felt the touch on my left shoulder before my neck had turned enough for the evening blaze to catch my eyes. The leftward direction begun by my hand continued to propel my arm, my torso, then my waist. Finally, my left leg shifted making room for the right. For a heartbeat, the difference stunned and blinded me. I was completely bathed in orange brilliance. All motion ceased except for squeezing my eyes tight shut and inhaling deeply. I remained a statue until a grey shadow covered me first left then right. Opening my right eye only, I looked out my glorious west windows and spied a grey-golden ball ringed with fire. Both below and to the right of the grey-golden ball, grey-white clouds held court, swaying and dancing for the grey-golden ball. The dance would not last long. The shadow-time would be brief. Dropping my unshared groceries to the floor, I raced to my refrigerator, flew around my small kitchen, careened back through my greatroom, now flooded in pink framed orange, grabbed a fresh journal off my desk, slowed only enough to not spill my dinner, and I launched myself, my food, and my writing materials onto the right corner of my bed. You see, evenings are tough for me. They are actually quite painful for the first few moments that my body registers the time of day. My tummy belongs to that of a six, or seven, or eight year-old. Then judgement sets in. Did I do enough today? Did I use all my time or did I waste a lot of it? Is something not done that should be? Was I naughty? Do I have to explain? Will it be noticed? Will I be noticed? Should I hide and wait? Mostly I just waited. This happens almost everyday that I am not at work. I work second shift because I cannot get up and I cannot bear too many evenings alone. The Cosmos knows this about me. Most of the time I have west and south windows. This time the Gods and Goddesses out did themselves. I have east, south, and west windows. The south windows make up most of the length of my apartment. The west ones make up most of the width. My heart, no, my soul, nearly bursts with Gratitude when I am blessed with the opportunity to bid the sun good night from my cozy perch. Light rays reflect in my brown-green eyes dosing me with anti-depressant goodness. My skin absorbs those rays nurturing me with Vitamin D. They are like solar kisses full of warmth, beauty, the promise of tomorrow. From my perch, I sup with my sleepy sun. As that beautiful, life-giving, ball of fire sinks out of my view, peace settles upon me. And I am grateful. bc