Diary of a Cynical Suicide – Part 7

(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 sometimes imagine someone reading these notes and trying to psychoanalyze me. But why should they have all the fun out me and I should get nothing back? Maybe I will throw in some terrible symptoms just to fools those good-for-nothing goody two shoes. Maybe I believe everyone around me is planning to kill me and thus suffer from paranoia. Maybe I am depressed because I am born to great things I am unable to do and thus this delusion of personal greatness. Like Jesus, I will say I am God’s own son and suckers, as people are, for such religious nonsense people will soon believe it. Maybe I too will start believing in it. Or maybe I will talk about things that are obviously hallucinations like the princess of Venus paying me a visit last night. It could all be so much fun.


A time traveler visited me this morning to tell me that Punjab is going to suffer from a major drought in next couple of years and will kill half its children. I wonder why he told me about it – me, who is the least able to do anything about it? I am trying to contact the authorities but all.i can do is sulk in despair.


I don’t think of you

Stopped it when you cut the call

In anger but no, Nah,

You didn’t even feel that

Nothing that is what you feel

I don’t think of you

Because you don’t think of me.

I don’t need you, I need nothing

I don’t feel anything for you, I feel nothing

I write this song try to pass that time

When, no, not, nah

when I can’t help thinking about you

It is not that

I don’t know what it is

But it is not that

I don’t think about you

In fact, I don’t remember who you are.



Shakespeare is right, ignorance is bliss. It is true the other way around too. Bliss is ignorance. Unfortunately, ignorance can’t be regrown from where it is once unrooted by the weeds of knowledge. And thus happiness too once lost, can’t be regained.


An artist on the other hand just looks at more beautiful aspects. I am cynic and though I don’t value truth a lot and I am too much of a coward to choose ignorance after knowing the truth.

The cure


I am no romantic and do not hold any fancy ideas about my misery – it is a terrible thing and must be cured for sure if such a cure was possible. But I am alive and I am afraid of those mind doctors and other well-wishers who wish to reduce my misery to a chemical imbalance in my mind or a bad habit. I know they will probably manage to do so and thus cure me and I know it would be the right thing to do ….. And no, I don’t want it to happen. I see things clearly. Only a cynic sees things clearly. 



Enough is enough. All art is, after all, rubbish. The things, universe, everything is ugly and all art is nothing but a miserable, pathetic effort to defy this. Every written word is another ugly stain on the already ugly world. I must not add to this clutter. How vain it is to presume that what I write is something special. I write because it passes time. But I also know it is a lot of rubbish. Before dying I will destroy all I have written. And thus humanity won’t be worse off for the error of bringing me into existence.



I cry for the incompleteness I feel in myself. I wish, cry, scream for it but since this inadequacy, incompleteness (goodness, how terribly primitive are our languages when it comes to talking about things that matter!)  Is not physical – no one understands me. How I long for an accident that could take away a limb from me and thus let me enjoy the taste of understanding – while, at the same time, let me prove to myself by trial and success what I have already proven by trial and error, the futility of trying to be understood. 

Another anxiety attack


I got severe headaches. It seemed as if the whole world was falling apart about me. Needing help, I contacted people who I thought were friends, who had promised that they would be found when I need them. And of course, they were all busy. I realized that I was alone, that perhaps everyone was alone and a friend meant nothing. That whatever is the opposite of loneliness is just a myth, like friends.


It was a funny day today and the above realization was just the first as I saw my world come down. I left my home and walked on the road in burning sunlight of this late summer afternoon. I wonder where I was taking myself to. I guess nowhere, that in fact, I was going far from the crowd at home which was supposed to give me the illusion of a family.


But I found myself in the familiar ruins. The ruins of the palaces, there are three or four of them, are somewhere I often take myself to in such absent-minded pilgrimages. The king died, childless despite his several queens around time, perhaps, I am not sure when. There were no homeless people there as I thought there would be before the first time I was there. Most of the place was closed. I roamed around in what sheltered place was open. I wondered what I was looking for in these ruins? I didn’t find joys in traveling or looking at ruins and considering them architectural beauties. To me, they were a disgusting use of limited land resources when millions were homeless. What I wanted in here? What pearls of wisdom could be dug out here which would help me find answers to unasked, ununderstood,  vague questions that torment me like this? Looking at those ruins with birdshit scattered all around inside them, I realized that this was what my life was becoming.


I realized I had come here to wait for death in peace, away from the crowd at home.


I came back home and tried to write. Passoa one wrote “if the heart could think, it would stop beating” and Rilke wrote, “how one longs to be near the sea”. What I won’t have given to be able to write like that?


As I tried writing, I realized how vain I was to think that I could follow in the footsteps of Dostoevsky as I saw my dream of becoming a good writing burning in those letters. What you hold before your eyes in form of these notes is nothing more than those ashes.


Throwing diary to side table which it missed running to ground instead, and ‘it deserved to lay torn there’, I thought. I went to bed and slept through the evening and first half of night.


I woke at two in the night and realized my world had not still finished falling apart.


As I was going out I saw a wooden ladder. It reminded me of ladders used to carry the dead to the place where they are out of pyre. For a moment, I had a euphoric illusion that I was dead before realizing the sad ridiculousness of thinking so.


 I took myself back to those same ruins using light of my mobile. I sat outside them and let insects bit me as I looked around from my sitting place to find nothing. What was I thinking? That world would make sense late at night when no one was watching?


I remembered making a last miserable effort at holding my world together -quite unconsciously, as I discovered afterwards when I noticed how I had held out my hand as if trying to grip something. Yet again, in that moment, I had lost differentiation between what was real and what was merely in mind.


I don’t know how long I sat there and, it was when my mobile shut down of low battery, betraying me like the rest of the world, that I stood up to leave. I fell in dark and got an injury at the knee. I lay there in massive pain and thought for a moment that I had broken it.


I realised it didn’t matter to me in the least whether I lie here all night with broken knee or went back home. Even after I realised I could walk, I walked back, to be in bed before someone notices my absence, only to hide my half insanity from the world till it matures and conquers my mind completely. But even that didn’t matter much to me. For I realized my world had all come down. Nothing mattered now. I could die or commit murder and it would be same. I might eat or not, might never have been born. And it won’t change. Nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered.

Illusion of friendship


Friendship is often the last of illusions which are part of naiveté of children to be broken. You need the misery to know that those you once considered as friends were merely glorified acquittances. At least for myself, I use Batman’s words, ‘I do not have luxury of friends.’

Of Budha


I have mentioned in passing an observation which Celene had already captured in a simple sentence “sooner or later, the sadness of life captures everyone.” Perhaps here we must talk about prince Siddhartha (whose name I took for my pen name of love of beauty of meaning that name rather than its most popular processor), as an example, whose father, a king, ensures that he is sheltered from all suffering for several years. But even all vigilance and power of king proved inadequate to keep one single soul away from the suffering of the world. 

Pain Letters – 5


Why did you hurt me? You knowingly, repeatedly hurt me. Most of the times it was redundant. At others time in doing something that could be done in a better way. You are not a bad person, are you? I don’t think so though I can’t be sure. I want to keep asking you this same question repeatedly knowing no answer that you might give will satisfy me. I want the ability to hurt you so that you should know how much you have been hurting me. Perhaps that is why I was so rude, so rough to you – was a sadist in that little illusion you left me with. You will never understand and I have stopped trying to show… At least I have stopped trying to show you. I hope this time my effort won’t fail.

Patience Stones


I am not a very easily approachable person – well, more like I am not a very attractive person. Neither looks nor personality. If I have a few friends, then that is because everyone seems to believe that I am a perfect patience stone. I have to admit that I somehow encourage and help this opinion to form, though I hate human contact. I hate the way people must go on talking about their problems. I understand the need – feeling it more than anyone else. I never could find a patience stone for myself. This diary was miserable and failed effort to make paper my patience stone. Maybe that is why my patience has broken down. Now, I am no longer your able to hear my friends talking about their issues. They never even learned to give me a friendly respect for that. And now I feel the need to press their weakest nerves which they have themselves told me about in vivid details. I hate to breach their trust like that. Shouldn’t I rather die?

Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan

Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan

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