So, here I start. I don’t know how to write this, and I don’t think there are any rules. Even if there are, you can't come knocking at my door and threaten me for the ones I broke. I won’t be here by then. This fact has made me feel safe.

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I am 89 years old, and today is not my birthday. In about twelve hours, I will be gone. Everything is planned. After completing this note, I will put it inside an envelope and put that envelope pressed under my clothes inside the cupboard. It will be safe there. Then I will take out the old rope from the shelf of that dark room and throw it around the ceiling fan. Then I will climb the tool and make a tight knot around my neck, give it two jerks, smile, and step on the edge of the stool.

The first time I thought about today was about seventy years ago. Motivated by something I read, something I found really inspiring and quite a truth at the time. It was about the dependency of humans on each other and that of animals. An animal doesn’t depend on another animal when it is old or when it is young. Although some animals do take care of their children, they do so because of the pure reason of kindness and love. It is only we humans who are afraid to die alone. I know this already sounds silly, but I don’t know. No, I don’t feel neglected or unloved. I am not even tired.

You don’t need to care about me. I am 89. This is not some teenager taking his or her life over a small cause. How much of my life am I going to cut short anyway? Thirty minutes? I just feel I have something to say.

When I was young, I had thought of going without writing a word or saying anything to anyone. Just a long stare at the wall till I lose and awaken myself and notice some tears in my eyes. That might be mysterious and wise. But I guess, at those times, I had nothing to write about either, except all the horrible things that had happened, how much I was through, and all that, and honestly, that’s not something quite my type now. At present, I don’t want to be mysterious or wise. All the wise men are coined wise because they actually expressed something. A silent man has never amounted to anything, except a fading figure in the background. This is the last piece of evidence of my existence in this world, so I will not waste it.

I had a wife. To tell you the truth, the initial plan was to do this act when I was 83 years old. I had decided that if I reached 83, and if there's nothing interesting to live for, then I kill myself. I chose 83, because it was a prime number, and I was obsessed with mathematics (though I did nothing in that field). At 83, my wife was alive. She died when I was 85. She was beautiful, and sometimes, she even made me question my philosophy. I have children too, even grandchildren, even great-grandchildren. After the death of my wife, I decided to do it when I reached 87, because 87 was the next prime. Well, it turned out, 87 wasn’t. 29 can divide it. It was quite strange that for two years I thought 87 was a prime number.

Anyway, this is a perfect time. It is even better than what 83 could’ve been. At present, my youngest grandchild is 20, and my oldest great-grandchild is 2. If my prediction is right, no one should be much affected. My prediction is based on my experience. I have seen the death of my parents, their parents, my brother, who died at 31, and my older sister, who died recently of a heart attack. The next on the expected queue isn’t me, but it looks like I am about to overtake.

Sometimes, I think I need to go and live with my children, but one thing I fear is that they might feel irritated with me. So, I need to be aware all the time and take as little space as possible in their house. I might only think about that for an hour though, and for the rest of the day, I might feel safe and content. But really, what’s the fuss? I will die here, and they will remember me. My reputation might get punctured though, but it won’t matter to me. I won’t be here.

In my teenage years, I started getting annoyed with my grandparents. Partly because of how much they wanted to control me. I thought they were always old their whole lives. Not because of the age gap between me and them, but because they never did anything in their life. They lived off of their parents when it was their time to earn, and when they became old, they wanted to live off of my parents. They just didn’t die and produced children, and that's all. I told myself to never be like them. And now, looking back at my life, I think I’ve become something like them. Though the path we took was different, I think there is not much difference.

I had thought of today's act before their death, but during their last days, this belief grew inside me. I decided how I will raise my children. That I will never make them suffer like my parents and I did. And the more I had to see old people, the more I would become certain to use this method. Maybe it’s alright to feel annoyed or irritated, because if you once suffered, and later will make others suffer, then that sort of cancels out and the selfishness is maintained—constant.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I couldn’t stand most old people when I was younger and I still can’t stand them, although they are supposed to be my friends now. And because of this, I guess I am a bit relieved. I was not my grandparents' favourite, but my siblings were, and my siblings liked them too. Well, I used to like them too when I was a child. They were a part of my happy family, and I loved them dearly. I wonder what happened when I started growing. Maybe it has nothing to do with age or what someone did in their life. Maybe it has to do with similar thoughts on life, or mindset. I guess when you are a kid, you don’t notice much of people’s true selves. They look lovely and dear. But as you grow, your brain develops and you start seeing how bad their personality, their behaviour, and the aura they carry really is. Because of this realization, I am in a dilemma. Maybe my grandchildren will like me. They used to like me, though it has been many years since we last saw one another, and it was only for a few days, so maybe I can’t actually predict anything. I can’t ask them directly. The only way to get an answer is by going to their house and living with them. But I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do. I could be disappointed.

Let’s talk about something else. The reason I dislike most people around my age is this: they are like my grandparents. The respect and importance they think they rightfully deserve from their children astonishes me. And the most they could do to defend themselves is by saying that they invested their lives in their children. That they raised their children, and therefore, they are important and should be worshipped. I never got a grasp of this fact when I was young, and still, I don't. It is parents who bring children into this world and not the other way around, so it’s their responsibility, and it’s alright to expect in return, but to force that and to imagine themselves as such a righteous deity is clearly questionable. I am not one of them, so we don’t get together much. I did the best I could while raising my children, and I have trained myself quite hard to accept the universal truth that is free of any delusion. That I was nobody, and I am nobody, and I am surely not important or deserving enough to be taken care of. I like to think all I did was out of pure kindness and compassion, and still, I do expect many things. I want to be taken care of, but that won’t make me a good parent. And at this age, I don’t want to ruin my long-held title of “good parent”.

Now, my parents were also nobody and not important enough in the Universe, though I thought they were and they thought the same thing too, but clearly, it was something driven out of emotions. It’s not a logical truth. My parents and I believed, and although I had questions, I chose not to harm their self-imagined importance during their last days.

Maybe my children think I am important to them as well. That depends on how their life actually is. Do they feel grateful that I brought them into this world? I don’t think so. I have seen the world for a very long time. Though, if my children feel grateful to be here and do not curse their fate most of the time, then there's hope.

I am by no means a hero. Always a coward. I always chose the easiest path, and this is why I think I have become something like my grandparents. My elder brother fought in the war and was killed in the battle. I was also offered a chance to join the war, do something for my country. Protect my people, earn a medal, and make something out of my life. But I refused, and all of my surroundings thought of me as a failure. I saw no point in fighting the war. It was just foolish. I chose to leave the country I was born in, instead. That made me infamous among the people I knew, and I was labelled as a bad example. Well, it wasn’t only my decision, my wife accepted it too, but I was the one who proposed it in the first place. We chose this country because it was peaceful and cheap. We figured by what we needed in our home country to survive a month, we could survive four months in this country. I always tried to run away from the problem. I never had the courage to fight, and I did fight a few times, but after losing, I never faced it again, just tried to run away. I don’t regret anything though, but I wonder if my children think of me as what I used to think of my elders. Are they any proud of me? Maybe they think of me as a loser, a runaway… and it should be okay, because it’s the fact. I can't even hide it from myself. But as it turns out, there wasn’t much difference between me and those who faced the problem back home in the past. In recent times, I was even patted by them on my back and praised that I did the right thing. Maybe my grandparents were patted too, and I never noticed.

I used to think it was easy to be a speaker or a writer. You have to tell people what they already know, and that’s all. Don’t tell me you don’t already know whether this life is beautiful or ugly. What is right and what is wrong? What is your purpose and what isn’t? That you need to focus, be positive, be compassionate, be moral, be rightful, be fearful, meditate, spread positive energy, make great decisions, don’t be afraid of failure, etc. Isn’t it interesting that we spend a lot of our time and money to hear or read or see exactly what we knew all along? People have lost their reasoning ability, and they want to be fooled. There isn’t much unique knowledge in this world either. But how you had to say the exact thing they already knew and they will think of you as great was clearly beyond my understanding. So I wanted to be someone like that. That looked easy.

Even on this note, I am mostly telling you the things you already know. But you might still think this writing is engaging, though I highly doubt it. It’s because when we know something and do not tell others, it slides deeper inside our hearts, and eventually, it becomes our weakness or a triggering point. And when we read the same or slightly altered version of the same truth, our weakness gets stirred up. We feel a connection. We think about how fundamentally similar we are. And so, we happen to like it.

When I was young, I wanted to be a philosopher. I thought I will make a great one when I am old. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Why did evolution take place? Why are we conscious? These types of questions fascinated me. I used to think life was pointless and meaningless. We were just dust particles who evolved and learned to think, and none of our lives matter. I believed it to be the truth. There is no answer. All this universe is just a random event, and our life adds no value to it. Existence is pointless, and nothing you do matters in the grand scheme.

But now I am old, and I want to say I lived a meaningful life. My life had value, and I was happy here. Looking back, my existence had a purpose, and I take great pride in that. You see, I was to not say those things. I failed my younger self. I was to neglect such things. I was to play God, someone who chooses to not just be a mere being, someone who could observe from above, while the mere normal beings just act on the ground. I was supposed to tell the truth and make people realize how stupid they are to think their life is going to be meaningful, to think their existence has a purpose, and that they will never be truly happy. I was to put doubts and fears in their minds. I was to tell people that they have no place, no meaning, no reasoning, and they are nothing to the world, however great they think they are. And Words like ''great'' and ''proud'' are just what we invented to feel better about ourselves. I was to say this world is only unfair, and the only thing that’s inevitable is suffering. Your self-importance, your rightfulness, and your thoughts are delusional. But I can’t. And so, I want to apologize to my younger self.

Every suicide note is some sort of apology to the younger self, no matter whose fault it was. It was my fault in my case.

People like my younger self should’ve been disciplined, and shouldn’t have ever been close to anyone. But there I was, getting close to this woman and eventually marrying her, and we produced five children. None of that was unexpected actually, you know, getting married. I was attractive and had a good body, so I was sure to get a wife, and I was doubtful about the children part though, but it worked, and we were happy. We lived a great life.

My wife and children destroyed the philosopher in me. They killed him and turned me into a mere, materialistic being. When I was young, I never believed those men when they said they felt fulfilled and content after they found a woman. I thought it was stupid. Total lies. But here I am, an idiot who got lucky, who lived with his wife, and is now on the verge of collapse in her absence.

My wife was a doctor. And to me, that’s the most puzzling profession, though I clearly understand its significance. But I wouldn’t want anyone close to me to fall into that trap. Although, she did. Well, she had already started, and even if she hadn’t, I had no right to stop her. Though I asked her the reasons why she wouldn’t leave it. What’s the need when some next person could easily take her place and she can make money another way? She had no answer to my question, except that she wanted to help people, and that she was passionate about saving lives. I know we need doctors, I myself need them once every month, but why does someone choose to be one? When you have enough alternatives and you are sure to make money the easy way? Why choose to read thousands of pages just to play with blood and tissue your whole life? You have to risk your life, you have to give up your sleep many times, the smell and the job is soul-sucking, and the salary is low. If you fail to save someone, it’s great psychological damage, and it’s even worse during the time of a pandemic. So, why would someone in their right mind choose to do it and not divert along the way? My wife said she was passionate. She was a doctor her whole life, and I was many things. I wish I had such power of passion in my life.

If I do this, what would my children think? That’s another great question I don’t know the answer to. Maybe they will tie this act with murder, but I am neither rich, nor I have any personal conflict with anyone. I hope they understand I just want to get away, because there is nothing in my life currently, and there will be if I think hard (I am sure of it), but I don’t want to think and fall into this trap. Though I like the blue sky when there are white clouds floating, the rustling of the trees, the smell of the flowers, and the softness of the grass, I think it’s better if I start over or just stop.

It would be better if there is some sort of reincarnation, and even better if we can go to the past, and marvelous, if I am selected for that. Any time would work in this country. Maybe not. Maybe it would be better if I am dismissed from any selection. That would be depressing though. The world continues and I am nowhere to be found. I would never get married, never hold my children in my arms for the first time, play with them, and watch them grow. I won’t experience such moments when I truly was happy. Surely, I won’t experience the horrible moments either, but life would still be worth it. Maybe I am afraid. Yes, I am afraid of not existing at all after this. I don’t want that. Let me be born, no matter where. Even a war zone would be okay. Let me hate that life every second I breathe. Let me be afraid every moment whether my house would be bombed or not; let me curse my fate every moment of my life. Or, love me and throw me in a peaceful village in a peaceful time. Make me a farmer, and I shall plant crops and play with mud, grow vegetables, and live in a small bamboo house with a fur roof.

To tell you the truth, writing this has actually made me respect my life and made my mind clear, and currently, I am even questioning whether I should really hang myself or not. Writing this was a bad idea. If I don’t hang myself, this will just be bait for you, and you will think I am a fraud. I am not a fraud. I will kill myself, not to prove anything, just because it is necessary also.

I have lived longer than I thought. Not saying about being 89. It’s just that it has been six days since I started writing this, and this is not yet finished. I was thinking about changing the opening because of that. Then I decided I should just leave it as it is. I was sure I would leave this world the first day, but here I am, still going. I don’t know what to write anymore. I feel it's insufficient and wrong, and although no one will throttle me for leaving it incomplete, I don't want to leave it undone and full of mistakes. Every day I try hard to remember and make something beautiful out of my life, and I fail. I only stare, and there is nothing I can do. I am very afraid of death actually. I think I have said that already. I am afraid of not hearing birds again, not wondering about clouds anymore, not sitting in this chair again, not putting my wobbly arms on this desk anymore. It’s the feeling I have experienced a lot in my life, that you are too strong to give up what you started but too weak to not wrap it up enough. So the only thing you can do is wait. But one day it will, and I will go that day. So I realized I should just write about myself, about what is happening. That’s why I told you how it has been six days already and I don’t know what to write about anymore.

At first, I thought of not going into my past and presenting the main moments to justify my way of life, like a novel, making a good plot from my story. Making a character to root for, using dialogue, and turning it dramatic, taking you into the journey I walked. But I thought that was boring and unimportant. I wanted this note to be short and to the point. But now, I have decided I should go, because I need to. I am afraid of the idea of not being here anymore and all my history, my footprints, my story, my beliefs, to just vanish inside my body, never seeing the light of someone’s head. Though I wonder how much I can make it safe through this note. And this is again the self-imagined importance that makes me believe my story should stay here even after my death. This seems to contradict what I wrote earlier.

I am afraid of the darkness though. I always told myself there has never been light anywhere. But still, life isn’t 100 dark, like death. It might be blackish or grey, but not 100 black. So, death does matter. It requires attention.

There must be some feelings of lack or ambivalence in realizing this person always spoke rubbish, and from tomorrow, he won’t speak. Whatever he was, good or bad, he doesn’t exist anymore. I guess I have contributed to the world by taking part in it, in this play, whether someone is watching or not. No amount of time and power can alter the fact that I was here. No one might know about me, but that doesn't change anything. I know I was here, and that’s more than enough. I guess that’s the point of life. You try to exist, and you have to find people who give meaning to your life except yourself. In my case, it would be my children.

They say the best things in life are things left unsaid. That mystery is delicious. But it’s not. I believe it’s either don’t open your mouth or complete what you started. But if I write more, you might get close to me, and at night you might think how a person like me could do such a thing. And that would be alright. But along the way, if you come to think that it’s always someone like me who does such a thing, then it would be a tragedy. For both of us.

I think it’s just my ego, and having an ego is not a way to have a peaceful life, and peaceful life is a must in this age. Maybe I should respect the idea of being a mere idiot most of us are and get out of this philosophical and logical dilemma. Maybe I need to be a burden. Maybe I need to wait some more time to see my wife.

Let me try to think from a logical and precise point of view. I am old, and there are so many things I can’t do easily. Like cooking, making my bed, washing my clothes, and keeping the house clean. And I surely don’t want to get in the way of my children, and I am sure they will feel a burden, and that’s nothing wrong. We tend to like people as long as they are profitable to us.

Of course, some wishes of mine are still unfulfilled. Like driving a BMW car. Like going on a vacation on a sandy beach. I have not even seen an Ocean once in my whole life. I think I was 46 the first time I saw snow, and there are only about three times I saw snow. But considering I am 89, all of them are impossible, and I can’t do much to change that. I can ask for help with my children, and that might be possible... but I guess I am too old to be childish again.

I gave my life meaning along the way, and I want to believe it was alright. I was too busy to stop and think. I have loved people, and they have loved me. But is that love or my life so beautiful to change my fate? Maybe not. Whether I believe my life was meaningful or meaningless, it is a truth that I am old, and soon, I won’t be able to function properly.

Nowadays, I don’t dislike people around my age. My dislike used to be at its peak some 20-30 years ago, but now, I don’t care. They have changed, and by the look on their face, it looks like they are afraid. They used to talk about what’s in their mind, all the rubbish that reflects in their every word that they are important. But now, most of them are silent. They can’t speak much though, but I think they choose to be silent. Maybe finally, they have got some sense, or maybe they are just afraid that the more they talk the more energy they waste and the closer they are to their demise.

The most important thing I want to say to you is this fundamental thing about humans. This is the thing that I have to remind myself of from time to time, but still, it’s at times quite hard for me to grasp. You can even see it being violated and not taken into account in this note as well. It’s the fact that everyone is different. I often forget this and question someone's choices in life. Why did they choose this way and not that? If I had understood it, I wouldn’t have disliked a lot of people in my life. And they wouldn’t have disliked me. Maybe I would’ve had a better relationship with my parents and my grandparents.

Considering the power this held, I have failed. I think I have filled it all with rubbish and dirt. Maybe you are not even here. You stopped reading along the way, and it’s alright. I won’t be there to ask you questions. Or maybe, you read. Maybe you truly found it interesting. Or maybe you are here because you started. You started it thinking it was the right thing to do, and along the way, although you found it pointless and absurd, you didn’t stop. Because you were fearful that if you stop, you have either to give it up completely, or you have to pick it up again after some time. You don’t want that. You see, that’s why I don’t want that either. I am finishing what I started.

Note: This wasn’t originally written in English. I translated it. This is his granddaughter. I am the one whom he mentioned in this note. The youngest one. He passed away one month ago in his sleep, at the age of 91. I couldn't track the actual date he wrote this, but it must have been a few days before he telephoned my house to ask if he could live with us. He was ill. He brought happiness into our lives, even in his final days. I loved him.