The perfect day to die.

I sit at my favorite spot , the chatt above the chatt.

I wish I had worn an upper, the air has that characteristic cold feel to it that all summer-winter transient airs possess.
The mynahs rummage in the rubble , hopeful for a breadcrumb or two.
The Beatles play.
The crows wander astray above me.
"Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?"

There is something serene, almost  perfect about this moment.

Something absolutely serene , absolute in the sense that it would never come again.

I feel like there would be , should be no tomorrow.

It should end today , right now.

It has been for quite some time now that the suicidal thoughts have been kept at bay.

Years have passed since I last held the knife to my wrist.

But today all the reason comes reeling back.

Today seems to be the perfect time to die , with the mynahs watching , the crows swaying to the wind's chime, with all the lonely people and their lone footsteps.

Everything I could ever want in life , exact at nineteen, I have and yet I am so unhappy , so so unhappy.

Who knows how life would be , from here on?

Better kill myself, right now in this perfect , serene moment.

Today is the perfect day to die.

I walk out towards the railing, in angle of the the armpit between the nurses' hostel and the building on which I am perched , is a void.

In that void , I belong.

But the fall won't kill ?!?!

Maybe break a leg or two , but not kill.

But hey! I could aim for the barbed wire and the pointed metal bars on the wall.
They would cut right through me.

Suddenly , the Azaan sounds.

My foot , on the verge of the railing now, hesitates.

The twin towers of the Bahawalpur block mock me , for they and I , both , are imprisoned.

They in stone, cement, varnish.

I, in this human body.