(A fiction by Sidharth Vardhan.
Please note that I started it as a fiction project that would use the disgusting ugliness to create some sort of literature. It was too close to reality to be worthwhile for anyone. If you are depressed or suicidal or are suspect-able, please avoid reading this diary. Those problems must be fought with all you have and the darkness contained in here can make your problems worse. Its only use can be found in the study of a very unhealthy and disgusting mind who has dumped his failures to find a value for his life in a dairy and ended up painting the whole world in black of his self-piety. The arguments he presents are all highly subjective and debatable and thus should not be considered wise at all. They prove nothing except the fact that he is a pathetic loser. You, whoever, are reading this, are a far superior person and should ask for help which is your birth-right as a human being and should ask for it and know that your life will be beautiful again. Yet I won’t take it offline as that seems to be cowardly. If you are curious, you can find all parts of ‘Diary of a Cynical Suicide’ here. )
I think of death as a friend. I told you how the mere thought of killing myself makes it easier to go through troublesome nights. And ain’t it a sign of a good friend? That mere idea of meeting her should assure you? I have seen my aunt, mother and grandmother suffer miserably. It was their life that had become ugly and not death. Death came like an old friend and took their misery away in a single moment.
Perhaps Gaiman is right. You would look at Death and think that you have already met her. She would be that approachable, that friendly.
You tell me that there are friends enough in this world. Yes, there are. I know that. But their good intentions don’t give results. They just don’t have that kind of power. Death can end my suffering in a moment.
One of Gaiman’s character Prez, a sort of ideal US president, gets a chance to see different versions of the US after death. I wish that would be the case with me too. I don’t care for US, India or any other country for that matter. But I do wish to see the worlds, all possible ones, good ones, bad ones, all sorts. The whole Doctor Who-esque thingy. Now that would be a death to look forward to.
…. or, or better still, I should love to be Dream’s librarian – and read books that haven’t been written or left unfinished. All unwritten books must be most beautiful, they grow common and vulgar only once they get written. Writers, poets, and artists are no lovers of art as they are thought to be, they destroy the beauty of things they imagine by making them real.
You perhaps think it ironical that a person who wants to see the worlds should want to kill himself. Why not see this world though? You ask me. But there is no irony, this body has its limitations which make it difficult to move and I wish to be rid of them to be able to move freely.
I think of the hypocrisy of human beings. It is okay to kill others as well as getting killed in a war that will take zillions of lives but not kill yourself at home.
I don’t want to see the whole world. I don’t even want to see my own face or the back of my eyelids. Why does it have to be death that’s so final? Why does one have to make the effort to die and then wait to decompose and let the body decay slowly and yet leaving the bones behind? Is there no way to just stop existing? For a miracle or a condom to make one’s existence come to an end. For your body to disintegrate at once in such small atoms as would again give the illusion of nonexistence.
Fear of failure
The trouble with choosing the method of suicide is fear of failure. No method gives 100 percent guarantee. Somebody always comes around by the time you get drowned and decides to play a good samaritan. And one is afraid of failure because it is likely to cause some permanent body damage and get the police interested, two things which in turn might make it difficult to make a second attempt. The worst fear is of causing permanent disability to oneself and having to live as a liability on others.
I sit here in a barber’s shop, waiting for my turn. It is one of those things that makes me wanna kill himself. The monotonicity of life. The badly dubbed-to-Hindi South Indian movies with those clichéd gravity-defying action sequences don’t help.
I want to die because I am bored with this world. I am bored because I am not easily entertained – and this inability to find entertainment ( or pleasure, satisfaction or fulfillment) easily in life is something I am arrogantly proud of, Animals and children are easily entertained and pleased, It is a mark of a low IQ brain to be happy so easily.
Perhaps these notes make me think of everything too negatively. Perhaps, you will argue, that I should focus on positive reasons. On 13 reasons why not and all that trash. But I’m afraid there is no such reason left. And there is nothing that gives me happiness. There is an interview for a job tomorrow. I might not get it and thus create another example of being useless to this world or I might not get it and earn money for a life I don’t want. Neither of alternatives gives me happiness. It is either best of lives or death for me – I do not just want to survive.
Today is my interview and I feel hollow inside. My heart seems to have suddenly shrunk and is no longer big enough to pump blood to the whole body. Maybe that is why I feel so tired and hungry. I am hungry but I couldn’t eat because there is a strange taste in the mouth and it spoils the taste of anything I eat. All my breakfast went to waste. I hate it when that happens – so many people dying of hunger. And I am here wasting food. Actually this food shall still feed some animal. It is the food I eat which is utterly wasted.
Disease called life
I struggle with uneasy breadths and excited heartbeats. I shiver but not of coldness. I don’t have fever but I wake up exhausted if I ever do sleep. It is as if the essence of my body became fluid and evaporated away due to one of the nightmares I saw last night. I don’t what disease it is. It has no name for me. Don’t tell me it’s name if you know one. I’m a coward who is too scared to name it. I chose to call it life – and I know no doctor who would advise me to get rid of it.
Apparently, I now have got a job. I look at people around me who have been working at this place for years – most of them angry at employers, yet no one leaves. Nine and half hours (it is 12 for labor) of work and another of transportation in a day for six days a week – it seems as though their life revolves around work – which is keeping records of movements of things as dead as records. I, my self, have joined them. I, too, sit glued to a computer, gazing at things no one except machines should ever care about. I don’t like to work. I am just doing it to be finally self-sufficient. It seems that to earn living one must die a few hours every day (except on weekends). To stay human, one must become a machine for a certain number of hours every week. I don’t like these temporary deaths. I have always preferred more permanent solutions.
Now that I have a job, I have to put an alarm. The clock symbol which shows that alarm is on in my mobile and stares back at me every time I look at it, reminding me that I have to die again for nine and half hours tomorrow as well.
I look at bosses who since they earn far more can talk about having bought a tee which cost as much as a colleague of mine would make in a month. And I wonder whether the same word ‘humans’ can be used to describe the two sets of people. The respect shown to him by my colleagues doesn’t help much. Then I look out of the window and think of labor who must work themselves out for twelve hours for a pay far less than what would buy the tee at end of the month. And I don’t know how to explain any of this
They keep asking me why is it so hard. What do I tell them? I need money. I need the job. And I know how to do the work. And yet… Why is it so much harder for me? I see people. They laugh and enjoy themselves when doing the same thing. Why is it so much harder for me? Why is it every day seems like a battle? Why is it I can’t even eat my breakfast even though I am hungry? Why is it I feel like crying? How is it, that going to work has become a nightmare in less than two days?
One of the reasons to get the work was that I needed a diversion away from these notes. But as you see, the work hasn’t helped at all. I don’t consider the life where I have to work on a job like this for the whole day living – but just a terrible way of dying.
Why do I publish these notes? It is not that someone can understand me through them. Though I try to be honest, I know that if I am myself when I write, I won’t be understood. If I try to be understood, the attempt to do so will turn me into a writer who isn’t me.
How many such notes do I want to write? I am publishing them in multiples of 25. A 100 seems a decent number. What will I do afterward? Perhaps actually die.
Pain Letters – 1
I take a leaf from your book and write this letter with no wish to send it. I write because I must scream and can’t and blackening this paper is the best alternative I have. I don’t know anymore if it was your fault. I try not to think of all the hurtful things you say or did; I try to not think of all the times I imagined you secretly laughing at me. I manage to do this but then I must blame myself for ending this – for somebody must get the blame for this; the accident of fate or bad luck or different values aren’t enough; blaming it on them would be too cruel. They are nonexistent, to blame such things is to blame no one.
I write to you to tell you that you win. You are the beautiful, free spirit. You can’t be blamed for what you are – and especially when you are such an amazing person. This is the judgment coming from one person whose judgment I put above everything else. I am the loser here in as much I am loser everywhere.
And the punishment for losing is missing you for the rest of my life. I learned my lesson, I am a bad lover. And I won’t ever let myself be attached to another person – this one, the lover in me that you befriended and sometimes loved, dies after writing this as his suicide note.
I don’t think you will come back but if you do, you won’t find him in me anymore. I gave him one chance and he failed to gain from it. Now he weeps in me and my throat is heavy in compassion. It is too unbearable, too pathetic and he must die.
For while living he will suffer. I am too broken to be compatible with humanity (and any delusions I had about it being otherwise are gone now) and he, the lover, will suffer and make me suffer as long as I am alone.
I try not to think of you and, more and more often, I am successful. I no longer love you. My soul no longer yearns to whisper your name – it yearns silently now wishing for something it doesn’t understand but that something it knows to no longer expect from you.
I must put in all my energy to stay away from you – for you too, though mostly for myself. For while you trashed my love as something you couldn’t take seriously, you cunningly didn’t throw away the ability to hurt me. And you can do it unconsciously, you won’t ever stop it, even now when you are no longer talking to me, I still want to scream to you to leave me alone. Perhaps even if the lover dies, you will still manage to hurt me. But lover must die still.
And with him must die my last wish for human contact. I will return to my books and bury myself in them – hoping to find a way to write books that I will consider the only meaningful part of my existence but that are mostly parts of my now blackened soul scattered on paper in so many letters – to serve as a fake consolatory gift for myself on the day I finally killed myself, because I can’t destroy myself completely and at once. Some part of me must last longer than me even if only for a few days before the next person recycles the paper.
Painting of my life
If my life was a work of art, then it shall be a painting I imagine in my mind of a man – young, but not youthful, stressed and in shabby clothes. In painting, this man looks at another painting – hanging on a wall. This painting within the painting is not detailed (intentionally for the content is irrelevant) – it seems like a landscape but you can’t be sure. The young man looks at this painting – his hand is outstretched, he wants to touch the painting. The act is in desperation, a longing – seeing the painting wasn’t enough for him, touching won’t be enough, he wants to get engulfed by the painting.
He longs for what sees in painting, and he knows there is no returning to it. The painting is his Mirror of Erised. The melancholy he must feel, wishes to feel for he keeps on returning to look at the painting. This desire for melancholy one gets when one looks at what one longs for – that is what is how I define my own existence. I long for just such painting or something of sorts, though I no longer know what that painting has. The young man doesn’t know what it is that he longs for, nothing in the painting is familiar to him. He longs for something and the landscape seems to be reminding him that he is missing something – only he is too clueless as to what it could be. The act of watching painting makes him miserable, the whole act of watching it is ‘an exercise in melancholy’ (which is the title of painting) but he must watch it. He really must.
I want to die tomorrow. I just wish there was one person who could hold my hand and tell me, “I understand. I understand you tried to live but failed. You fought against it and lost. I understand that there is no alternative for you now.” And I would not have felt so alone.
I scream my cry for help here and now cleverly knowing no one will come to rescue me since no one reads all that I write here. And having made enough calls for help, I now go and kill myself – since 100 is as good a number as any to stop and if it is not enough than a thousand notes won’t be enough either. I shall plan this last installment to time after my death. Bye, you who aren’t reading it or are reading it out of empty curiosity. It is time for my exit.
Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan