(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. )
You argue that there are some happy souls, you tell me to be stubbornly happy as, of course, many are trying to. But are there any really happy people? I will happily …. Okay not happily bit but bravely bear all the griefs I must carry with my sorry existence if I was sure that I was promised that there will be at least one soul who will live a perfectly happy life because of me. But you know as much as me how impossible such a thing is.
When Vonnegut made the statement “all was good, nothing hurt.” as the epithet of one of his characters – it was a statement that filled us, well, at least me, with sadness because I knew that Vonnegut was just joking. He knew as much as Celene and me that no one can honestly claim for such an epithet.
All the same I wish to imagine a happy soul. When I imagine a happy soul, I imagine him or her as comfortably off as regards their basic needs – the food, clothing and shelter along with at least one of following qualities:
A. Being completely devoid of compassion
B. Completely devoid of any intelligence helped with being kept away from misery of all forms all life
C. A great ability of having opt-in ignorance
Because, you see, if one doesn’t suffer for oneself, one will suffer in compassion for others.
All this talk about happiness might make you think that I am a hedonist – well, sometimes I even convince myself but really I am not. While in a less than perfectly happy world, I will want to walk away from Omela (even if I was myself happy), in a happy world, I would be bored to death – figuratively (not that I am not close to it in this world).
Happiness, you see, is overrated. Entertainment is more important. That is why the politicians think masses are all about ‘bread and circuses’. I just wish this world was a bit more interesting.
I am scared of darkness I hold inside myself. I am not talking about this diary but, to take another of many examples, about this other novel I am writing – narrated by a psychopath. I haven’t come across the story of a similar psychopath all my life. It came from somewhere inside my mind. There hides a psychopath in shadows just behind consciousness of my mind. I should kill myself before he comes out.
When a friend of mine showed me a comedy video, I laughed. It was so absurd, I was shocked myself. Somehow the discovery was saddening. For, by contrast, it managed to strike me all more strongly with sadness that has become a part of my general existence.
I sometimes wrongly call myself a nihilist and a nihilist refuses to agree in any way with any of other philosophies. But hey, that is true for all other philosophies, right? No one philosophy agrees with any other. What makes nihilism one better is that it doesn’t even believe in itself, that is, believing that there is nothing worth believing is in itself a belief and, by axioms of nihilism,.should be disbelieved. A nihilist thus must live in this contraction where he must disbelieve in his own belief that there is nothing worth believing in.
I wrote the above note to prove that I am no fan of Nihilism. I think a solution – not a good one, but rather a very bad one intellectually, but still effective in practice, is that Nihilism wants you to stay lazy in bed and do nothing.
The above solution is effective in that it doesn’t have to even try to cure the ineffectiveness of humanity, which other philosophies try so hard to change and fail. Nihilism is effective in that very ineffectiveness.
I am guilty of using the word ‘effective’ while talking about a philosophy. Thus I qualify the above by adding that an ‘effective philosophy’ is an oxymoron which is an argument in favor of Nihilism …. But also against it, given that Nihilism is itself a philosophy. Oh, those paradoxes! I love them for they show that all knowledge and beliefs are fantasies of asexual (and thus also boring) part of the brain.
The reason why I have talked in detail about Nihilism is that its inherent laziness seems to be at times, what is keeping me from killing myself. I am the frog in a boiling pot, already suffering but still in so gradually increasing a fashion that it doesn’t break me into motion from resisting. I just sit there in the water waiting for prime of misery (old age and disease) when I should have killed myself.
I guess another reason I fail to completely devote myself to Nihilism is that I still sometimes discover myself believing in something. I have observed that all such beliefs will eventually lend me to suffer and thus whenever I find myself believing in something, I run with my tail in my legs, to sweet shelter of nihilism – hoping, someday, to find a shelter here.
As an example of above, just another day I found that my very suicidal tendencies are themselves a proof of my believing in some things. It was television commercial highlighting a people who, of poverty, are forced to make rats their food. The person who was beside me watching the TVC cried and after a moment told me to thank God that our life was so many times better … And that it is ridiculous to think that we have nothing. I suppressed so very hard the urge to argue back. Yes, I do whine about the stuff that I don’t have in life, I can’t help what I am feeling and talking about it. If more people did that, the world would be a better place. And I won’t thank God because I don’t believe in one. What compassionate God would give people such misery? Even if there was a God who put order to chaos and this order meant me sitting here whining about my life and those people forced to eat rats, I won’t thank him – just hate him. And again, if this God was to somehow show the necessity of having at least some people live in that utter misery, I would hate him for not giving comforts to one of those poor souls and letting me suffer in that turn. And I would say it, not because I am compassionate, but rather because a randomly chosen soul would probably be far deserving of this life and comforts it has than I am. I would also hate god for not making me capable of helping those people and helping to make the world a better place. I was miserable in realization that there was still so much I care about.
I can’t handle the chaos the world is. I am no absurdist taking world on its meaningless face value. My mind doesn’t relax in chaos, and since I can’t believe in God, I suffer whenever I find myself feeling a need of order as in above. I this try to counter argue the belief of which this need for the order had arisen in the first place. Since only a fool will try to refute the utter factuality of such poverty, I take shelter in the fact of my own uselessness.
A Bad Artist
Galib once said, “Kya haal puchte ho mere kaam Ka, ki aayine bechta hu andhon me sheer men” (what are you about my work for? I sell mirrors in the city of blind). I know that I am too terrible an artist to claim that my art is unappreciated because the city is blind or that it would be appreciated by those with eyes. Yet even if my art is bad (I know it is), I am still an artist all the same and an artist in my whole existence. And no one can refute that. And since my art is bad, I am left useless to humanity. Killing myself will be a favor I will do on humanity – for it won’t need to feed a useless resource like me.
If ever someone wrote my biography (though there is no reason for anyone to), I should like it to be named ‘A Bad Artist’.
Superficiality of decisiveness
Think deep and you will be left confused. The charm of decisiveness lies with those who live superficially. By living superficially I mean not those who are superficial, there are no naturally superficial people, just whether they think deep or not. Everybody can think deeply but only a few unfortunate souls actually do because others aren’t even conscious of the depths they hold in themselves – the difference, thus, is whether they are conscious of their own depths or not. I wish I too could live superficially.
Did I tell you that I got a slight limp on the day from the injury when everything stoped mattering? It is one of the best things that has happened in what goes down as my life. I have always wanted some kind of amputation – I know it is a most unfortunate thing and that it is a sad fate for physically disabled people. But I believe it would justify all my eccentricities. Eccentricities which of course arise out of some unnamed disability just as much as physical as an amputation but less visible to eyes.
A limp gets you to benefit of being physically disabled with minimum loss to body functions. I wished for one, though of course, I feel sorry for others who got such a handicap without wishing for it. Unfortunately, this limp I have got is temporary. It is already fading away. I miss the pain in the knee, such a powerful distraction from thoughts about my own miserable existence.
Pain letters – 6
I wish to avoid even thinking of you when I am not in one of those dark moods and when I am in one than it is either a pain letter or a series of reproaches. I can’t help punishing you unjustly for a few adolscent mistakes. I am sorry. Though I can’t promise and won’t promise to stop with all this. It is like i must bury all this darkness in some tiny room just behind the left corner of the curtain of consciousness and you also happen to reside there – and thus without wanting to, frustrate the only consolation I have in time of misery – that of solitude. I hope they ain’t affecting you, the pain letters if I end up sending any of them to you anyway. I wish I could stay away from you and there is only one way I can do this.
Pain letters – 7
It will please you to know that people still laugh at me because of you.
Pain letters – 8
I always itch to take up an argument with you and humiliate myself by doing so. Here is a list of reasons why I shouldn’t contact you which I will read whenever I am tempted to contact you.
Reasons why I shouldn’t contact you
A. It will spoil both our moods.
B. It will hurt me more and you will probably be indifferent and your indifference will hurt me more.
C. I will feel guilty for spoiling your mood.
D. If you cut call or blocked me, as I might probably end up begging you to, I will yet again suffer from that same old separation anxiety.
E. We need to move on.
F. You don’t give a damn about me or how I feel.
G. You deserve better treatment.
H. Nothing will correct the kind of joke you have made of me.
I. I am incapable of the kind of determination needed to take revenge on you.
J. Even if you wanted to come back, there will be no going back to those old days. The one I loved was just a piece of my imagination.
K. It would be better if I just kill myself.
L. You will be too busy to response.
Let us see if it works!
Pain Letters – 9
No number of those ridiculous reasons is going to be enough to stop me from contacting you and making a fool of myself, is it?
Pain Letters – 10
There was a time when more often than not I could be at peace in solitude – that is the biggest hurt you have given me. I was never a people person, I am not popular like you. People recognize the loser I am, the very first time they see me. But I could read several hours a day, occasionally write a little, listen to my music without happiness given by that musical mirage of an understanding being spoiled by a face that I now, unfortunately, recognize only in hostility that tortured feels towards torturer.
I once called you Scarlet for a reason you never care ask about, luckily for me because the reason for same seems ridiculous to me in retrospect. It is me who was living in childish naivety – that of the belief that I can find a kindred soul. And I do not have children’s excuse for that navity because, unlike children who don’t know better, I had been disillusioned about it and chose to be a fool. But now I have an answer to all of those who think I intentionally avoid happiness. Unlike other pain letters, this one could be addressed to more than one, if I write it to you then that is because I can’t even pretend in my mind that others will understand. You won’t either, but you once gave me the illusion of being a person who understands. And as is my habit, I go against my better judgment by still sometimes choosing to believe in that illusion.
I once thought I can look pass several things without holding grudges, forgive several others – and that applied in your case as well as that of my other friends but it seems I have lost that ability if I ever had it. There is so much I am unable to forgive and a couple of calls you cut from me – including one where you had given me two minutes (‘i am counting’ you added, remember?) to say my goodbyes for last time and then cutting the call within the first minute. I am sure something vitally important to you must have come up even at that time.
You came back pretending to give friendship another chance but I don’t remember you picking my call or responding to my texts spontaneously even once. I am sure you got too many important things to do, so I won’t accuse you but now please don’t pretend I ever held any importance in your life. I don’t know why you keep lying to me, but it doesn’t matter.
You were the one who was always talking about how I used to be one of your best friends. But I must be a terrible friend, given how when I need a friend, people are either too busy or chose to make jokes at my expense. At least now I have learned my lesson not to believe in such things as friends. I could reproach you for several things but what is the point in doing that, right? Now, you aren’t even the only one of my friends who turned the only time I tried to be with someone into a matter of joke. You see? You aren’t an anomaly. Most people are given to false promises, pretending to have a feeling when they have none, forgetting their friends when they got more pleasure from other things and, at least in case of my friends, given to making jokes when their friends are in misery. And how far I am lacking in dignity is clear from fact that I still wake up every morning a shred of a friendly word from you. It would have taken you a minute to tell me that you can’t come to text me at eleven the night before last and it would save me so much anguish but you are clearly busy. Must come from that minor celebrity status you are enjoying. You managed to fool me with your family promises, the empty pretension of needing me and ten songs. And I am a fool still.
If I must suffer everything alone, I don’t see why I should stay around for others. I am not sure that though you ask me what I deleted so many times you will ever read this. If I ever end up sending it to you, then it is because I am not normal like you and lack your discipline of bottled up emotions and unsent letters. Though that is something I am working to develop, thanks to the lesson taught by those who had no patience whenever I felt need to talk about anything I feel – you had that patience once but you probably lost that bit of abnormality too sometimes. I am sorry in advance if it spoils your mood, though I doubt it will. I write this not because I wish to reach you, but because I suffer and writing this passes time without me adding to that joke I have become. There is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. There was a time when you used to give me happiness merely by existing but such good things never last in my life.
I hope you won’t block me because I still can’t help wanting to know what is going on in your life, though I am not always sure whether it is because I care about you – the way you might care for a small child you barely know crossing a busy road (though I don’t think of you as a child any longer) or it is because I actually wanna find a chance to hurt you.
I will suffer for whatever time I will have on the planet, I know already it is going to be another day spent changing sides on my bed, but it won’t matter, nothing matters.
The last one
These notes are already 200, they shouldn’t have been written in first place. They haven’t helped me in living or dying. I am still struck in between. May be this time I will die.At least I am gonna stop with them.
Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan