He cheated on his wife. The same wife that cooked apple pies and taught children at the blind school, telling them how beautifully they had painted the walls of the playground.
He hated himself for the cheating, for the fact that she lied, for he saw Rorschach inkblot’s wherever he looked.
But he couldn't commit suicide because he couldn't write a suicide note. It was the most frustrating writers’ block he had ever faced. If justifying your death wasn't humiliating enough, justifying it with random words strung together in unsophisticated pettiness was.
He thought of Africa. A thousand children must be crying from hunger pangs right now. This very moment, a lioness of the Golden Pride is singling out the weakest among the herd of grazing zebras. This instant, a shipwrecked sailor lost at sea is sending out a message in a bottle asking unconvinced for help.
The tragedy had ended.
He went back to living.
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