Prelude to Eternal Rest

The wind ruffled his hair, messing them up even more. The chilled air of the twilight felt refreshing. There were still a few more minutes before the sun would begin to rise from it's deep slumber, waking the sleeping city. He could see a few lights beginning to flicker on in some of the houses. Children getting ready for school; adults getting ready to go to their jobs; some adults even returning from their jobs. The world carried on, knowing it was safe. He went on protecting it.

The smell of the fresh morning air, yet to be corrupted by the day's pollution, filled his lungs, threatening to burst them open. He stretched out his hands and let out a big, tired yawn. He hadn't gotten any sleep last night as usual, but this was nothing new to him. In fact, he'd gotten quite used to it; he thought nothing of it now. The Sun had begun peeking out of the horizon. He couldn't see it, because of the jungle of glass and brick that stood in front of him, blocking his sight from what could have been one of the most stunning sights he would have ever witnessed in his lifetime, but he could tell from the colours that painted the sky. The cold air, undisturbed and pure, had now been touched upon by the rays of the Sun, warming it to just the right temperature; still a bit cold, but not too cold. The reserved, virgin air, was now a cheerful mixture of child-like excitement and mature politeness. It no longer stung his nostrils. This part of the day was his favourite.

The air was still void of loud noises. There were some distant noises of vehicles, but that was pretty much it. The peace still hung in the dense air. The sound of birds chirping had always had a calming effect on him. They were so free. They had their own problems, of course, like, not getting eaten or killed and all that, but they were free to roam wherever they wanted.

Of course. He thought. Life as a bird would be boring still. I would have only known that I need to survive. I would have never known the beauty of suicide then. He looked down at the ground, five storyes below him. A calm smile made his way on to his face. Everyone thought he was crazy for trying to commit suicide. They always asked him why. "Why do want to commit suicide?" "What are you unhappy about?" "Are you depressed?" "Why do you want to give up your life just like that?" They tried to make him think otherwise and change his decision. "But you have such wonderful friends!" "Everything will become better soon; don't worry." "You don't seem like the type to be depressed. Are you even depressed? Maybe you're just trying to convince yourself that you are depressed." And every single time he'd just smile politely and find a way to excuse himself. They wouldn't understand anyway.

He didn't commit suicide because he was unhappy, or depressed, or lonely or any reason related to those. He simply wanted to commit suicide because he did. It was beautiful. It was the end of a life, marking the beginning of a new one. It was a transition. You become one with the nature, the Earth, the space, the universe; you become nothingness. What comes after death? No one knows. Death is an art in itself. And he is the artist that paints it in all it's glory. He is the one who shall create it at his own will. He shall become the beautiful sky, with its ever-changing colours, now looking like a blooming lavender; he shall become the air, soft and gentle against the skin; he shall become the morning dew, resting on the fresh, green leaves of a plant; he shall be the songs the birds sang, a harmony as sweet as the scent of a honeysuckle. He shall be everything, and yet nothing. That was the art of death. If he would die, only to live on in memories, that was just enough for him. That was perfect. He didn't need to make his life worth living, he wanted to make it worth remembering.

The day had finally begun. The Sun had risen high enough, and the sky was a gentle blue. The streets had just begun to welcome the day's invaders after a deserted night. The vehicles' noises had become slightly louder. He took in a deep breath of warm air, and felt his feet glide, and they left the edge of the ledge.

* * *

Author's note: Sorry for the extremely short fanfiction ^^I|I

I just wanted to write something that showed a different, less conventional reason to why Dazai loves to commit suicide. Something short and sweet (not so sure if I got the "sweet" part through perfectly, though ^^' ).

If there is anything you would like to tell me or advise or even just generally comment, do do so!

I've also been really into Dazai x Atsushi after reading bsd, so get ready for those fanfictions too XD

Hope you have a good day~~ (or night if you are reading this late at night instead of sleeping which is what you should be doing. Go to sleep child.)

[Creds for the original pic:- https://in.pinterest.com/pin/462674561701902472/]