He ate guilt for breakfast , depression for lunch , angst for snacks and inner turmoil for dinner. Little did he know that after a bizarre night of thunderstorm there’d be a brighter day. While the roof attached with the rope collapsed , and the sedatives started to wear off , he knew he wanted to live an another life. Reminiscing this scene of over a decade , he playfully rubbed his dog’s head and smiled while adoring it’s innocence. He was a survivor , a warrior. He had stories to tell. Suicide is hell. Living is a gift and that’s what he wrote in his novel.