(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. )
“What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”Oscar Wilde
I think a lot about dying. Dream about it. But as much as I think of suicide, it is always about how people would feel afterward and rarely the actual incident of death, It is somehow difficult to imagine myself dying – dead yes, but not dying, and if I do imagine death, it is rarely causing me suffering – what would be point of dying if I was to suffer through it? I may as well live.
There is a girl in my apartment. One of my roommate’s girlfriend. She and my other roommates are joking around. I can’t bring myself to join them. Something keeps me aloof. It ain’t envy or attraction to her. I somehow rarely get attracted to a woman. Just as something keeps me from mixing with people in general. In fact, I can rarely feel anything, lesser still the pain. I just can’t bring myself to eat – three days already since I last ate something. I just can’t care – for myself or for others. It is four days I have been with my roommates and I still don’t know the names of any of them. It is as if something is already dead inside me. I’m already a walking dead.
Annoyed from all the noises they are making in my apartment, I try to focus on reading but can’t. Try watching movies. Ditto. So I close my eyes. And start thinking about how I can free myself from this hell anytime. The thought of suicide is so empowering.
There is something strangely fulfilling about idea of killing oneself. I imagine people mourning for me, saying good stuff about me, forgetting what a loser I am. Stuff they won’t ever say if I was alive. All is forgiven to dead. You are bound to be a star on the day of your last rites. I always wish I could be there to see mine (as a ghost, soul or something of the sort).
I search for zillionth time on how to kill myself. Soon, I’m tired of googling about methods of killing oneself which assures death 100% and ending up finding helplines and motivational rambles. Why can’t they let a person die peacefully?
I’m lying on my back on a stool in a public park, looking up to leaves of a tree right overhead which is shading me – thinking about what it could be like if the tree was to fell on me and I was to die on the spot, It would be as absurd as my life and my personality – an anomaly, a strange way of dying. Unrealistic. Queer. Oddly funny. It would be so difficult for people to believe in it, and they would look at my dead body with the same quizzed look in their eyes with which they look at me now. ‘Crushed to death by a tree?’ They would wonder, ‘sort of thing that would happen to a weirdo like him’. I, myself, of course, prefer it. It would be so effortless. No need to commit suicide. It is also something literary – like that Doctor from Marquez book who died by falling while chasing a parrot up a tree.
But what is one to do? The tree just won’t fell. And now there is an old man sitting right next to me. I don’t want him to die with me. I don’t want to share my thunder with anyone. When people die in groups due to accidents, the total of attention they share is only as much attention of the public as an individual will get if a single person was to die by the same accident. There seems to be an upper limit to the compassion we can feel.
I imagine standing in a railway line and doing the countdown to somebody (obviously scared and telling me to move away) over the phone. Ten. Nine. Eight. While waiting for train to hit me. Seven. Six. Five. It is dark in my imagination with that big light of engine falling on me like a theatrical light. The driver of train is shaking his hand violently and asking me to move away (he won’t use the brakes). Four. Three. Two. One. Smash. I die. The phone is lost from my hand and a crying voice can still be heard from the other end.
Maybe it is not so much death I want, more like drama.
Talking about wanting a drama, suicide is such an awesome drama that nothing in any other art form can parallel it. It is a shame that the artist just can’t wave his hand and bow to the audience afterward. It must feel to him a bit like that magician who couldn’t be there to accept the applause of the audience in the movie ‘Prestige’.
Being hit by a train is a difficult method to die where I live. There are no metros and the trains here slow down from miles away. One just doesn’t see a train going at full speed here. And I don’t know how to drive so I can’t go far. Damit, I always thought driving was a ‘living’ skill.
Maybe I don’t need to die. I will become a trophy husband ( to think someone could pay my way through life!) – that too would take away the effort one must make to kill oneself.
You, whoever is unimaginable reader, who has time to read tje diary of a loser, stop now. If negativity depresses you, stop now. If drama depresses you now, ditto. You have seen the kind of stuff these notes are made of, it doesn’t get better only far worse.
Most importantly, if you think you have reasons as to why I should live and if you yourself genuinely believe in them, then for your own sake stop because I am about to shatter most such reasons to pieces.
You have been warned. Don’t accuse me afterward for writing what is on my mind.
First method of avoiding death – Drinking
Death is the death of consciousness – when one is not oneself anymore. A way of dying for me has always been madness. And so the choice was between death and madness. I must have one or the other. I couldn’t see how I could willingly go mad. I tried and so many times felt really close to, but nothing. So I choose death.
But then I thought drunk people don’t often act like themselves. So I thought maybe I will drink. More like someone recommended it to me. They also recommended masturbation.
I tried drinking. Was disappointing. It didn’t turn out well. First glass did nothing. Second, did make the world go swim just a little. But I was still myself. I mean how bad it could be if I am typing it after second glass. Maybe I should have had a third glass.
I did have five glasses next night. It was disappointing. To think of how much poets have sung about it – how many people ruin their lives over this. All I felt was discomfort in physical movement. But I often feel tipsy in my depression states too. Maybe I get drunk on my sorrow.
The way the behavior of some people changes after drinking is suggestive of the fact that they have discovered some sort of secret. I didn’t feel such a thing when I drank myself. But in some ways, alcohol is like my own life – big package, bitter tastes, letting you getting drunk to your sorrows.
Struggling Vs Suffering
Once I finally determined that I’m gonna kill myself by next birthday, I started feeling relaxed. I was still suffering from my agonies but I was no longer struggling with them. Struggling is far tougher than mere suffering, caveat emptor.
The movie ticket
I don’t think the world needs me. I don’t think I like the world a lot. It is as simple as that. You can even leave a movie you didn’t like midway – even though you chose to watch it. And I didn’t even buy the ticket to this life in the first place.
You see for people like me, the reality is like four walls of a cage I am in. And one just knows there is no way through them. One deceives himself with illusions, knowingly or unknowingly, and hits one’s own with all one’s might against those walls armed with these illusions. But the illusions must finally break down and one must finally come face to face with the brutal reality that tells how redundant one really is in this world.
Economics and life
In Economics you stop producing goods when investment in variable factors starts giving negative returns. No romantic illusions like growth, development, capitalism and other such trash will make you want to change your decision. It might be a sad state of affairs but it is what must be done. And that is how it is with me. My life gives me negative returns.
The name of things
My name or rather first three letters of it -R, I, P offer a nice mine of jokes on my suicidal nature. I wonder which one it better joke:
“It is ironical that I should be in constant delirum. I mean I have RIP (Rest In Peace) in my name”
“I’m just fated to kill myself. I have RIP (Rest in Peace) in my very name.”
Which one do you think it is?
To Live is foolishness
I am an unhealthy, weak thirty-year-old man. I can’t worry about money, have no career, future, the financial security of any kind. Suffer from chronic headaches, spells of insomnia, acute depression, anxieties including social and, when I am unlucky enough to love someone, separation anxieties. I can’t even keep a regular job. Dying seems so natural, so obvious, so logical thing to do; that I feel like a fool for going on living, And every day I live adds to that big foolishness of mine. It is about 15 years now I have felt that way. 15 years of foolishness.
Everyone must die
So often one hears people say that everyone who lives must die. I wonder if they ever think about what it implies. That living is dying. That life is a slow poison – arguably the slowest of them all but hardly one with least suffering. On the contrary, one that makes one suffer the most and the longest.
And there is more truth to the above argument than a mere play at words. Because at some point in our lives, we do become conscious of the presence of this poison in our chest, that makes one suffer like an invisible dragger already deep into our heart – there are so many names for this feeling – the great sadness of life, the existential crisis, the littleness of our existence, the meaninglessness of the whole thing, but whatever you may call it, sooner or later you will feel it. At that point, there are only two honest ways of reacting to the situation – killing oneself or going mad.
There is a third way too – opt-in ignorance. Most of us though chose to be hypocrites. We chose to live in illusions and lies we build ourselves for it. I’m a hypocrite too, but I guess I am just not good at it.
There is no cool way to enter the world. You enter it, washed with the blood of your mother and your first act is to cry upon the first sight of the world (I often wonder if babies are wiser than they seem, and they just forget their wisdom as they grow older) but leaving this world …. that is in our own hand. I do not want to leave this world after a long illness full of suffering – that is one sadness of our life I wish to avoid. I would want to leave when I am still in full control of my limbs. I will choose a day to be last and make it the most fantastic them of all. Ending on a high .. that is my dream.
Copyright – Sidharth Vardhan