Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of breathing is. All it does is regenerate things that should be dying anyway. My tainted breath has no place in a world where flowers can thrive, never mind that their life processes come from what I give off, and I receive my life back from them. Instead of breathing, let's all just get killed and when we're buried (no coffin; it's a waste of gorgeous trees) die with flower seeds in our mouths and let the flowers grow. For myself, I'd want a rose bush, one with far-reaching roots that would tear through every bit of me to steal ever last nutrient that might be lingering silent in my rotting flesh.
That's certainly an idea. It is something that I could plan out. I could plan my own death. Or, rather, I could fake my own death, then find somewhere to have my true death. Oh, the plan is forming in my mind... it wouldn't be too difficult. I can leave the world as a martyr who died in the troubles of war and that might shock everyone into gaining and keeping peace for long enough that they realize that they like it.
The plan is simple. There will be a final battle. One of the Gundam pilots will try to defeat me, possibly the quaintly justice-obsessed one who stormed my quarters the first evening I began to truly think of my own death. Regardless of who attacks my mobile suit, it will explode. I'll push the self-detonation button just as I'm being attacked. But, while there will be a huge explosion, my body will be encapsulated in the cockpit and will soar off into space with all of the needed things to get back to Earth. My body will never be found, and it will be thought to have simply burned up. They'll think me dead, so they won't be searching for me.
When I get back to Earth, I'll find my way back to my favorite rose garden. Night after night, I'll go to the rose garden and begin to dig a body-sized hole out from under my favorite variety with a good bit of clearance for preliminary movement. I'll support the rose bush with two planks held together with some simple latch that can be broken with a swift pull. I'll attach a dagger to a piece of rope attached to the latch. Then, I'll push myself into the hole, cover where I entered, and I'll stab myself in the heart with the dagger and be covered with the soil that will steal me away in time with my hand clasped about a dagger stuck between my ribs.
Won't that be a sight for the archeologists to see when I'm long gone and only my bones and the dagger remain? Perhaps, first, I'll put a clause in my will that states that my remains are to be carted away fully intact to a museum of my choosing. Perhaps the AC branch of the Smithsonian would care to have my bones to display next to those of the assassinated Heero Yuy. His breastbone still holds a bullet. My hand can keep a dagger.
Or, perhaps I *should* die the old-fashioned valiant way. After all, there's no honor in suicide, and the honor of truly dying in battle is great. However, what good is honor if you're dead?
Regardless of that, I'll die shortly. Milliard, hopefully, will take my death harshly and it will jolt him into ending his farce of a revolt. Lady Une, it is my guess, might be able to pull herself back together. The world, it is my greatest guess, will continue to war for an indeterminable period until they realize it is futile. I hope I can help them realize that with my death.
Let me die for the lives I've caused the end of, and let me be a part of the end of the war. But, let me die. Living is not an option, not even if I do love roses.