All suicides come back. They're the only ones that do.
I'll point you to the case of Vincent - poor sweet Vincent, so cruel for him to come like he did. Having to see the work of his former self hanging in the galleries; to see it s brilliance lauded in the newspapers and in magazines.
He didn't understand it at all - someone was speaking with a voice that was his own but he had never uttered a word. The whole wide world crying out the genius of this work, so close to his own heart.
No matter how hard he tried to shut it all out, the paintings, with their swirls and their colours, would never leave his mind. He would shut his eyes and see them all. The sunflowers, the chairs, the crows in the night sky - all of them with crystal clarity in his head.
Vincent needed to express himself. His body screamed for him to do it. But Vincent would never paint; what would be the point? Someone else had said it all before. What a waste.
So Vincent sat and waited for something, anything to help him out but there was no use. He needed to paint but he was redundant. So he sat and waited some more.
Until he couldn't bear it anymore.
And, of course, there was no redemption, just another new beginning.
