Aokigahara

I guess you could say the reasons differ for why most of Japan's suicidals do it. The two major ones are because of work -- ironically -- those that do it too much and those that can't find any at all. Rather than bring dishonor upon oneself, more and more Japanese are apt to end it all and gain what honor they can in death. Mothers who kill themselves but spare their children are more likely to demonized than those who take them to the grave.

Japan isn't the highest ranked country in the world for suicides. But it comes with a rich history. Samurai and their seppuku, fighter pilots and their kamikaze, all glorified in harrowing fashion the act of taking one's life. A new label suits the modern-day suicidals: the Hikikomori. These are recluses, introverts, shut-ins, and any other description that highlights their unwillingness to enter the world and instead draw the curtains and shutter the windows. The extent of human interaction for many is a parent or caregiver who provides them with a tray of food. A far cry from stomach disembowelment and fiery explosions in the Pacific.

When caught in the act, a Japanese person likely won't go through with it. At least not until later. Special lights in the subway seek to draw attention to potential suicidals and in a way shame them into not doing it due to the risk of being witnessed. Aokigahara, the Sea of Trees, was brought into the mainstream first by books glorifying its serene qualities and as an ideal setting for a suicide. Documentaries and Internet culture would later shed more light on it, but more as a fascinating topic than a tragic circumstance.

i throw up, which it reminds me of
eating too much candy as a child
on Halloween night, which reminds me
of the beating i received, which reminds
me of how i ran away, which
reminds me of the orphanage,
which reminds me of home.

i look in the mirror, which brings back memories
of feeling self conscious and unwanted
in grade school, which brings back
memories of my first dance, which brings
back memories of being cheated on, which
brings back memories of using,
which brings back memories i'd rather forget.

i see the scars on my arm, which make me think
if the world would be better off without me
a part of it, which makes me think
of ending it again, which makes me
think of all the times i haven't, which makes
me think of why i haven't, which
makes me think of using again,
which makes me think of when i quit.

i head back to bed.

insecurities

we'd rather not put in the effort
of making life meaningful
so we inundate ourselves
in distractions and sideshows.

we'd rather not find ourselves
but rather constantly look at others
and why they are so much better
and how to become them.

happiness is elusive in the 21 century
amid a torrent of messaging
and incessant reminders
that you are not quite perfect.

instead of seeking knowledge
we pursue ways to avoid it,
instead occupying our time
on ever-wasteful endeavors.

the ultimate insecurity
of the modern day man
is his inability to define himself
and live life in his own way.

you have one saved message

Walking down the street

The gnawing urge overcomes me

And I pull out my cellphone

To listen to the voicemail.

“Mary, sweetheart, I love you,

Oh god, I love you so much.

I just want you to know that,

Mommy loves you. Love you.” click

I stand transfixed on the sidewalk

In a trance, melding into the street

As strangers pass by me

Largely unnoticed.

Twelve years ago my mom died

In an airplane that hit a building in New York.

Minutes before it happened she called

And left me her final message.