Amazing Poems/Monologues

The Fleeting Little Life Of Peter Wright - TimH and Sammy Paul

This is a long monologue, but I really love how it is written. Of course, all credits to TimH and Sammy Paul. The monologue starts almost halfway through the video. It takes some time. 

They say that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Then again it could be a permanent solution to a permanent problem. Hell, if you fuck it up it could be a temporary solution to a permanent problem. I don't know what it is about being suicidal that makes people treat you like a fucking six year old. Cause to be honest; it is a bit shit. Is it really that surprising that the thought of suicide crosses our mind every now and then? That little voice that tells you to jump? Those moments you remind yourself how thin the line is.

And it's easier to shut them down, to suppress them, slap a suicidal label on anyone who dares say them out loud. But are they not the most human thing? Reminding yourself that you have control over your fleeting little life if nothing else. But, if you kill yourself right now, kids are still gonna go to school, get their lunch money stolen. DFS are still gonna have another one-off, half price winter sale. Prepubescent teens are still gonna fuck up their first time and still brag about it to their friends. The clocks will keep ticking.

You know, in this great nation of ours, about fourteen people kill themselves everyday. Is that what you want to become? A number? Part of a number? A fucking tally on a fucking spread sheet filed away somewhere deep in the office of national statistics, until some entrepreneurial fuckwit digs it out in a half-baked attempt to convince us all that we need to invest in his pricey safety initiative? Or a stat some teacher sticks in her assembly slideshow, just to remind kids that the school has a counseling team; they have ten minutes in circle time and a colour coordinated a leaflet on dealing with stress is really gonna tip the balance.

Cause you're right, you don't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. Well I mean, like I'd miss you but then I'm gonna fucking die. Bill Murray, Mrs. Buxton's cat, that racist man at the end of my road. None of it matters, not in the end. Except Bill Murray, he is a treasure. But still, a hundred years from now you and I are gonna be nothing but a few faded photos in a shoebox and an abandoned FaceBook profile. Or maybe FaceBook will be dead and all. Ultimately it's all pointless, but then what does that even mean? As a species we seem obsessed with finding a purpose - a point - to everything, but maybe there isn't one. Or maybe there is and this is it.

Kill Peter Wright if you have too, but don't kill yourself. Jump on the next Eurostar to Belgium. Leave all this behind. Pursue a life as a chocolatier in the rural tranquility of Derby. Learn a new language. Marry the local barmaid with the massive tits and grow old in a thatched cottage. Can you imagine? Your grandkids would love you. You'd be like Willy Wonka to them or something.

No, but I'm serious, is that not better than dying? If you really were committed to the idea of saying goodbye, then surely you have the conviction to pack up and start fresh. I know you're not religious but the way I see it, you have three options. Either, you meet your maker and find out suicide's a sin, so good luck with that. Alternatively you're reincarnated at a mosquito and find out that your best efforts were wasted. Or, you assume this is this is the one shot we get. Stick it out for a bit. Just see what happens.