Diary of a cynical Suicide – Part 5

(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. )

diary of a cynical suicide sidharth vardhan fiction



I return to these notes guilty as I have yet again failed to kill myself. Guilty as I have humiliated both myself and these notes, which are my best endeavor, to be honest. I won’t make any excuses. After all, to whom I am to make them. The whole point of talking to a paper is knowing that the paper understands.or its silence gives the impression.

One-winged bird


I am a one-winged bird whose life’s story is full of failed efforts to fly and grieving that followed, which in turn is followed by that useless hope of being able to fly which like a phoenix is repeatedly born of its own failures. I hope again only to be miserable in the failure of that hope.


I write and rewrite my past and futures and find solace in them, for the misery of my present is too obvious in absence of that second wing.

Anxiety Attack


Another anxiety attack and only person I can talk to about it is the person I don’t want to talk to about it.

Of Love


What is this all propaganda about love saving the world? Rowling, Doctor Who and all that. I think love have to be most overrated thing in the world. Love doesn’t change a thing. We are evolved such that it is impossible for us to love unconditionally anyway.

Of Marriage


Marriage is another thing people do to distract themselves from suicide. The whole idea of it is bogus. People are not meant to be togather. We might have been once when we were still slaves of evolution but as soon as we grew civilised, there was no need to stay in herds and ideas like private space and privacy entered our morality. The bodily smells and sounds that are a part of who we physically are, are also things that disgust us in others – and we try so hard to hide them. Ditto with things considered ugly – thus need for makeup. We aren’t meant to be physically around-each other except for purposes of sex. We can’t live in this world with a constant actual physical connection. That is why the first thing doctors do when we are born, is to sever the umbilical chord.



As for sex, we do it under a sort of possession, not being ourselves, that is why we need all those fetish games – to put a meaning to things without meaning. We don’t talk about sex with children because we don’t understand it. And the old adage – we are afraid of what doesn’t scare us.



I am Sisphyus who pushes the rock to the top of the mountain with the hope of finally achieving some meaning in life repeatedly only to see it fall down again and this world is my hell.



The assumption that the world is fair is a sort of childish virginity. The first time the world destroys it is the first time it screws you.


The cognition which arises out of the loss of this virginity has resulted in so many childish ideas – god, karma etc which I would love to refute if they weren’t just so cute.


Sometimes I come across an innocent kid – still world virgin, lost in its games, laughing in the naive magnificent manner in which only children can laugh, I feel compelled to caution it but someone else has done it already – told the kid not to laugh out loud, not in open. Flaunting your happiness out in open is naive – one must hide it and feel guilty about the fact of one’s happiness in case one gets it.

A game


Life is a non-zero sum game, we are all dealt with unequal cards and, in this game of poker too, one must have to chance of getting out of the game any time one wants.

A button


Often I yearn for a button switching off which I can die and come back to life as much as I want – so that I can die a little and know what it feels like. I wish to have Lazarus’s memories of the underworld or that of a phoenix from the times when it was just ashes of its old self. Even if coming back to life is not an option, a simple switch for spontaneous death will do. Anything that makes killing oneself as easy that is desirable.


When I told about this yearning to a friend, she said if there was a switch – everyone would have used it. Perhaps of temptation, perhaps of a genuine wish to die. Either way, I do hope she realizes what it tells about the worth of human life.

Need for Orgasms


I strongly need to feel something – something happy and distracting. The great tragedy of life, to paraphrase Celene, is that it is not one long series of orgasms.


That is why I must die – the weird brain function that feels like a high – as shown in House MD. That is what I want. To die a little – for it is perhaps only in those last few moments that one truly lives.



I can’t live with this substandard world, either I must destroy it or die myself. Dying is easy – and thus appeals to my lazy nature.



Sometimes I think I want to die because I ain’t living in any real sense and that I need someone – hopefully, a sexy blonde in mini skirt and just out of teens to teach me how to. If that is the case, I am no more than a male sleeping beauty waiting for true love’s first kiss … or true lust’s more like.



It is not true that I do not want to live. I want to – I want to live alone but I also want to live partying and being with a new woman every few days and, at the same time, I want to live forever with a single woman I love and, at this same moment, I want to live the life of a social activist sacrificing all he has for welfare but I also want to be insanely and rudely rich and I also want to read all the books of the world but also want to have a TARDIS. It is an absurd choice I have to make at every step which drives me to want to kill myself. I want to have everything and not having to choose. Of so many possible lives, I only get one and it is so little, that I would rather have none at all and, that way, keep my right to whine about it.



Humanity is like an alchemist who wakes up every morning with a new hope of making gold of lead of his life and spends hours working hard only to despair as it sees all his efforts and hopes vanish.

Brokenhearted it returns every night, and failing to sleep in the bed of hopelessness, it invents new hopes and ideas that, it already knows, will fail – but it forces itself to believe in their success in giving it the media’s touch anyway just in order to get through the night and the day after. Hope makes us all pathetic. I, too, am a Scherzade who must tell the dictator inside me a new story to survive another day.

Pain letters – 2


It is detestable – the fact that I should miss you when you go on hurting and insulting me like this and yet I can’t get you out of my mind. I feel a strong desire to contact you again, it comes to me like an enduring agony. I try to divert myself by looking for distractions but so often am rendered motionless by this unbearable pain. It takes all my energy not to send you another email begging you to come – I know you won’t, and even if you did, you won’t be yourself I know about. I know you would insult me all over again and I will have to regret it for days to come. I have become pathetic and detestable in my own eyes and so I can’t blame you for feeling repelled by me. And after all, it is other you I long for who is no longer there, perhaps never. My whole existence has become a the longing for something that never existed and it is worse than being nothing which is what I would be when I die.

Table Manners


I name them ‘notes of a cynical suicide’ because people tell me I am very cynical. I like to think I am just plain old honest and very observant – but perhaps that is the definition of a cynic in a world where hypocrisy is taken for gentility, good manners, and politeness.


Trivial as it may sound, table manners is one of the things that drive me to kill myself. It is one of those false virtues which plague human existence in general and me in particular. Machines can do stuff in proper order and manner. Let me be wild in my ways so I can be alive.

Consolatory Prize


Death remains a sort of consolatory Prize for me. How much I yearn for never having existed in the first place.

A beggar’s delight


An expression comes to my mind – ‘a beggar’s delight’. I don’t know what it means. A king’s delight is a large and happy kingdom. A foodie’s delight is delicious food. A doctor’s delight is in health and hygiene (apart from sexy nurses). I wonder what a beggar will delight in? Begging? Having his or her needs fulfilled? Or not having his or her needs fulfilled? I don’t expect an answer. The expression is meaningless just like everything else that ever entered in my mind. Yet I will call my own life ‘a beggar’s delight’ since the expression seems so poetic in its meaninglessness, like my own life.

Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan

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