(A short fiction
First written on April 3, 2019
Find all parts of ‘Diary of a Cynical Suicide’ here )
Today I know of the greatest frustration of all. My mind explodes with ideas and I am starved of paper to put them on, having run out of pages in my diary. If only it was possible to die of starvation of paper! I live in darkness devoid of electricity during nights…How bad it has to get until I realise that this is the time to end it?
Yeats once said that a thing of beauty of joy forever. In as much there is nothing beautiful as no joy lasts – that much I think I have talked about earlier. But the statement is ridiculous in another way. Even what goes down as things of beauty do not necessarily fill ‘normal’ people with joy. Normal people quickly reach out to pluck out the flower they find beautiful and thus starting it on its death, hill stations that were once seen as beautiful are now cluttered with garbage and pollution by those who find them beautiful and go there for trips or to live out of love for their beauty. A man finding a woman beautiful because of her shapely body will marry her and have children with her and thus spoiling her bodily curves which he loved in the first place ( not that those making that much of looks have much to be said in their favour). Normal people aren’t filled by joy even by what they might think beautiful. They are filled with an unconscious desire to destroy the thing because the perceived beauty reminds them of their own ugliness.
I am fortunate enough not to suffer the ease of normality. I am disturbed to no end on seeing a beautiful thing end. This griefs me enough to want to kill myself rather than see a beautiful thing end even if the beauty of the thing is a mere illusion in my mind.
The wound is always there. It just won’t bleed all the time – even at times fooling me into believing that it is healed but it is always there – and sooner or later, it will start hurting again.
Those who say that forgiveness benefits the offended are ignorant. Forgiveness does not lighten the burden of anger and anguish in the person forgiving. That is a mere myth. In fact, it is the other way around, we can truly forgive the offender when the anger, anguish, pain etc is already gone. Otherwise, you can believe and tell the offender that he or she is given but you will continue to suffer from the offence because merely thinking and saying the words of forgiveness does not create a magical effect on your feelings (otherwise we would all be able to forgive). And the misery continues to haunt you, you start holding the very offence that you thought you had forgiven the person. Thus try not to be too quick to utter words of forgiveness, don’t say them till you are not hurting anymore from the offence, or you will find that yourself regretting those very words that you said to absolve someone else of their regret. Let you utter the words of forgiveness only when you are sure of no longer suffering from the offence and sometimes suffering will only end with your life and thus the words of forgiveness should wait for that long too.
There are three sources of guilt – compassion, bad conscience and reproaches.
Of these, the first is a pathological disease common to all herd animals.
One suffers doubly first at the sight of the other person suffering and only then from knowledge of having done them wrong.
The conscience, on the other hand, is a negative virtue that can be defined as values that we produce in order to save ourselves from guilt. It is the suffering caused not so much from the fact of having done someone wrong but from having done something below oneself. The bad conscience it seems to me is narcissism taking a hit, where one self-esteem falls because of awareness of having done an act that is not true to one’s high self-image. Conscience is a bad superficial parameter – sometimes it makes you suffer though no one was hurt by your actions. Sometimes it would stay clean even though you might have hurt millions.
Perhaps the most common and definitely the worst source of guilt is reproaches and accusations. This is guilt induced not so much by what is inside one but rather by words of others – their reproaches and accusations. Perhaps a hurt person has the reason to reproach or accuses the offender but often such words can induce guilt even when no one was hurt – they are often used to create peer or social pressure to conform to norms etc. Prometheus was made to feel guilty by gods because of an act of good
Whatever the source of guilt, it is still suffering and meaningless suffering at that for, no matter how much guilt you feel, your feeling it won’t by itself make the person you might have hurt any better.
Apologies do not take away or reduce the hurt caused. And they are not tendered so much because one is feeling guilty and not accepted so much because one is no longer hurting. Apologies, in my opinion, are just requests – the attempts by the offender to renew the acquaintance or friendship. The apologiser makes them because he or she still wants the friendship/acquaintance and the offendee will accept them only if he/she wants the same. I have seen people not apologising even though feeling guilty because they think they can get away with keeping friendship/acquaintance either way. And I have seen them not make apologies even though feeling guilty because they didn’t want the friendship anymore. And I have seen people apologising even though they were not feeling guilty, nah they were the ones hurt because they wanted the friendship so much more than the other party. It is always the weaker one in a relationship who apologises and, if the apologiser is often (though not always) also the one that had caused hurt, it is because guilt often adds substantially to the weakness,
The apologies do not kill the suffering of the offender, though when they are accepted they take away the suffering the offender. In fact, it does so far make the offender feel redeemed that he or she starts taking offence whenever the offendee so much admits of feeling the same old pain (caused by offender) again. By having forgiven, the offendee even loses even right to feel the pain from the hurt caused.
And yet, I have seen that the apologies tendered as admissions of guilt for all kind of sufferings caused. There is though one cause of suffering that is apologised for far less than others. Perhaps because it takes the form of a sort of reciprocity, a passive vengence or it might be because it comes from someone already suffering but mostly because it has that disgusting sense of righteousness – it is the suffering offender feels in form of guilt. This might be done actively by making reproaches or accusations but passively too by not forgiving. There are though lots of good reasons to not say words of forgiveness as we have seen above. And often reproaches, as different from accusations are nothing but statements that offender has broked offendee’s trust. The accusation, on the other hand, is just statements made for the pure purpose of creating guilt. A person might reproach and forgive you in the same statement but an accusing person will only want to punish you if not some other way than by withholding forgiveness. Still, one feels disgusted by the uptightness and judgement of unforgiving as the offending action of the offender.
I was never someone who wanted ‘to see the word’ as the expression is normally understood – I never was interested in ruins ‘of historical importance’. what is historical importance anyway? We only have our present, past is important only as far as it makes present more fulfilling. Let those ruins be replaced by houses for the poor. Buildings are liked books or peoples, it is inhuman to preserve their corpses which is what they become when do not house life.
Nor was I interested in world travel for the sake of other distractions – the amusements like those children parks were childish, they didn’t grow interesting just because they had pretty colours or were far away.
I love nature in a limited way, have wished all my life to see snow and the sea but apart from that, I feel little inducement in physical attractions of places. As for attractions like drinks and clubs and parties, I have no love for them – they are only for those who need an outside stimulant – loud music or a couple of drinks to lose themselves. I never found myself, so they do not attract me.
I do not wish to see tourist spots, take them all and give them to the people who will feel fulfiled on sight of ruins or childish thrills.
But I do wish to be in places (not travel, physical movements bores me but be in places – for which, since we do not have teleportation technologies, travel is the only way possible). I do wish to travel – since either we must have a home or else we must travel. As I said I never found myself, so never found a home. Even what I call ‘myself’ is more than one selves fighting to gain control over me ushering different states of mind. If I can’t find myself, I can’t give myself a home. Perhaps only in the nothingness of death I will ever find a home.
And so I must travel or perish. But travel where? the geography or anything on google maps won’t interest me. No, my places do not show up on maps. They are people. My places are people. I must find people from different cultures, traditions etc – talk to them, of their passions, desires, dreams, habits, hobbies, whims, weakness, loves, differences, prejudices. I must travel people, the way others travel places – never staying with one (and I must keep reminding myself that I do not have the luxury to build homes in people who will leave me if I don’t leave them because sooner or later I will start depressing them) and always the wanderer and always homeless until I could go to a quiet sleep in that great last destination which my soul yearns so much for.
I need a face, an understanding, compassionate face of someone who won’t get disgusted, tormented, scared or bored by my perpetual whining and, if my experience till now is anything to go by, I am never gonna find such a person, in fact, I no longer have energy or wish to look for it. When I said I ‘need’ the face, I mean I need it now stronger than ever since the world has become a disappointment and I got this bitterness inside me which I must rid of and I can only do so when I have found such a face. Everyone whom I have been tried for the purpose has failed, and the fear of silent abandonment keeps me from looking for another one again. Since no such face could be found I will just have to create an imaginary friend of sorts through these letters. And so my pain letters addressed to you are going to be a method through which its addressee must be created and, also, the process by which the ‘pain’ that initiated them must be healed. It is ironical I seem to be attempting to start on cowardly ways of one of the characters of my novels (a novel that had a poor literary quality).
Whether or not anyone see them such, but these notes are just as much an effort to deter suicide as much as they are a preparation for them and the pain letters addressed to you, Ms. Nobody (I just gave you a gender, till now you were neutral, I think a psychologist will have much to say about this. But let us stick to baby steps only, let me not give you more permanent features or I fear you will end up reminding me too much of people whom I am trying to chase away from my consciousness. Yet, I already see you as kind and compassionate, having an eager excitement of a born blind who just got eyes and is waiting eagerly for the first time she could open her eyes to the world of colours. You will be my Galatea and I am forced to create you because I already have Pygmalion’s misanthropy.
I hope you will wait for me to come back for you and talk to you more. Till then I hope you won’t mind waiting like, as yet, the unfinished statue of Galatea.
Wondering the streets I pick up two pebbles and run them around my fingers trying to own them by putting a bit of my own existence in them through this act of running them around my fingers. I hold in them a little bit of universe in my hand, and I hold more of the universe at this moment in form of those two pebbles than I ever did in past and through those two pebbles, the universe holds me lightly but firmly the way a shoot holds on to a flower.
Google will let you create alerts for specific words of your choice so that you can know when those words are useful anywhere over the internet. I wish one could create such an alert on human minds so that one would be alerted every time one is remembered by someone else. How difficult it would be then to fake love or pretend that you missed someone you didn’t and that you didn’t miss someone or love someone you did. How difficult it could be for you to hide the worst of your emotions when you wished to seem good, and your genuine concern for a person even when you are angry at the same. All the superficiality of emotions, for good or worse, we are forced to see in each other would then be lost.
Most of our emotional reactions that are seen by others, in my opinion, are not reactions to conditions but rather the emotional reaction to the emotional reaction of the situation. If we were to show emotional reaction itself the world could be saved from so many misunderstandings. But instead of showing it, we resist any display. Children in this aspect are wiser than older people. When a child wishes to be hugged and kissed, it would just ask for it or worse to worse will weep. When an adult wants to be hugged, he or she will often get immensely angry and pretend to scorn away all intimacy. If only we would tell those who are late that they were late, instead of letting our concern in anger and demanding justifications, if only those coming late should say they feel guilty, instead of replying in anger, if only ….. And, in this lies, the biggest fall of human civilisation.
Death grows wiser with humans.
I am not a romantic. Death to me is not a thing but an end to the thing called life. It is simply the name given to all the ways in which machinery of a living body stops working. So if I enjoy romanticisation of idea of death in paintings and writings, or romanticise it myself, it is merely for aesthetic pleasure. They do not appeal to my sense of reason just as other imaginary beings like dragons, Gods or Phoenix won’t.
Still, when very young, I first discovered the nature of AIDS and Cancer, an image of death as a sentient being – a clever one at that crossed my mind for a moment. They say it is because of death we love but death when it comes in form of a plague, shows us the hypocrisy of love because our loved ones would be too afraid to even hold our hand as we die in agony. Maybe she is cleverer than we think she is. And that is why we have never been able to beat it.
That we have not been able to beat it is something widely observed. But we do have made a lot of progress in trying to fight it. We have discovered cures of lots of deadly diseases. And we have developed immunity for several others. Common cold was the weapons Europeans had used to colonise America. Americans never had common cold germs of Europe so had never developed immunity for it. Common cold must have come like a plague to them. So we might argue, common cold might once have been deadly in Europe and Eastern World too.
But now we have developed immunity against the same. Nietzsche said what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger. Humanity as a whole seems to live with the same principle. What doesn’t destroy humanity (even if it kills humans) makes it stronger. Maybe Black Death never returned because people grew immune to it. But that is idle speculation. What I wish to observe is that we do have made progress in fighting death.
However, death seems to attack back with more innovative ideas. There are diseases like Cancer, hard to detect when it is easy to cure in earlier stages and almost impossible to cure when easily detectable. Death seems to have learned ways to play hide-and-seek with all our health tests.
And AIDS which would attack your immunity system leaving you vulnerable to all sorts of diseases. How clever of death to attack the very defences we have taken generations to develop!
The ones who cry most for great suicides like Van Gogh are the kind that was my ‘rock’ in the world. The rock on which I build the church of my utopian dreams. But these individuals are also my biggest disappointment. They, who cry for those who killed themselves, won’t do anything for the ones who might. If they met Van Gogh they might talk to him musingly, even shed a few years in first moments but as soon as the excitement of first meeting is over, they would find him dull, dumb. Not so far away would remarks like Vincent suffered by choice because he didn’t want to leave the hell of suffering, that he was just being overly dramatic, that he should grow more commercial etc. And even these remarks do not show up from them, expect them to get bored with him and leave him alone sooner or later. Vincent’s glory lies in the fact that he is dead. People hate the ones among whom he lived unappreciated and often hated. But not much has changed, at best a present-day Vincent could hope to become was a thing of temporary amusement for some lucky souls. “tell us, oh! Tell us, Vincent, what horrors, you suffer! Oh, Vincent, we are so sorry, no one seems to understand you! Tell us, Vincent we will understand, we will. Yes, of course, we will be able to take us. Ah! You poor soul, such anguish! I am crying here for you. You can always count on us. No Vincent, we are busy just right now. No Vincent, we are busy shopping just now. Oh no, Vincent, not same old story again. Can’t you get real? Just get over it already. Go die!”
People are, in my opinion, wrong to assume that Vincent never found someone who could understand him, what he didn’t find was someone he could always rely upon to be understood. Sooner or later they all get tired or bored or moved on with their life. The tales of anguish are often long and it needs a great act of courage for teller to began telling them every single time – and often he or she does it only to find that what he or she took for compassion of listener was mere pity or curiosity, what he or she took for understanding of listener was mere amusement. Thus repeatedly disappointments make him so scared of all the courage needed to tell his story, the story which he or she can’t hold inside himself anymore. This anguish of untold misery make him or her to put a bullet through his head one day or make her put rocks in her pockets and walk into the sea or make her burn her head in the oven. And we are quick to label them as ‘cowards’ ‘sinners’ or ‘idiots’.
All these sentimental souls who shed tears on Vincent Van Gogh’s tragedy and love sharing his pictures disgust so much that they give me an idea of a story which would run somewhat thus:
You see a few months ago, who was very close to me (though this closeness was only my side) told me to go down to a hell of suffering which ‘i do not want to leave’. I decided to plunge a bit deeper into this hell to Vincent Van Gogh’s ghost in there, lying on the floor in misery.
I decided to go to him and tell him that he is loved and respected today. Van Gogh won’t say a word and left me as soon as he saw me, but another ghost that of a girl who committed suicide after being bullied by her classmates told me why he was so distrustful. She said Vincent had already discovered that he was popular in my time. She told me how he, the ghost, once decided in front of a fan of his who was shedding tears upon reading about his tragic end and loved his artworks and how this acquaintance went. I can’t go into too many details (it won’t be necessary) but here are a few of the things that this fan had said during their acquaintance lasting a few months:
“Oh tell me, Oh ! Tell me, Vincent
what horrors, you suffered!”
“Oh Vincent, I am so sorry,
no one seems to have understood you!
Tell me, Vincent, I will understand,
Tell me to open your heart to me”
“Yes, of course, I will be able to take it.
Don’t worry you won’t depress me…
Ah! You poor soul, such anguish!
I am crying here for you. But don’t worry!
We will be best friends.
You can always count on me.
Share your agony with me anytime if it helps.”
“No Vincent, I am busy just right now,
A new movie came out.
Give me a couple of hours maybe?
“No Vincent, I am busy shopping just now.
“No Vincent, I have a career to focus on.
Next month maybe?”
“No Vincent, you can get so depressing. I am not in the mood.
What do you mean that your anguish won’t wait till a time convenient for me?”
“Oh no, Vincent, not same old story again.
Can’t you get real? Just get over it already.”
“Oh no! I wasn’t ignoring you.
I was just too busy with my gardens.”
“I am starting to think that you love to suffer.”
“Oh! Go die all over again!”
To people who want to go away without a goodbye
Some of you are really best of folks I have met. Most understanding and best of humankind (though that last is not much of a compliment when coming from me). I understand that people have to go away, I understand that people grow apart, I understand that I am the most depressing person and the worst friend possible, I understand that you don’t want to say a proper goodbye to me or think I don’t deserve one or just don’t have enough time to say one. I understand all this. I understand that you do not want to give me reasons why and so must leave me wondering why you grew so silent so suddenly – If I did something wrong or where I was wrong. Sure. If that is how it is, that too. But must you then do it by seeing and ignoring my messages and leave it up to me to wonder whether I will ever hear from you? Whether I can count you as a friend or not? You know the reason why it has ended and won’t tell me why but at least do me the mercy of hinting that it is over. I know words are too much to count upon, at the very least block me out, so that I can know that you are gone for sure, so that when next time I look for a friend I know better than counting on you. Can’t you see how much anguish such a simple act could save me?
And if you must leave, why make attempts to come back after so many months? I can understand if a bad instinct made you say goodbyes that you didn’t mean, but when you are so silently abandoning me for months with no intention of ever returning, at the very least hold firm to your choice and stay away. Don’t come back again, only to leave yet again after a few more meetings. Am I to be no more than an object of convenience.
If, as a writer of average abilities, I was to show the effects of addiction of drugs, alcohol etc at its worse, I would show an addicted person in most miserable condition – lying on road, half torn clothes, a position to which he has succumbed from a normal middle-class family because of his addiction. And yet this half-starved man would only be obsessed about getting the thing that he is addicted for. As long as he keeps on getting it, he would not want much more and not want that ‘more’ strongly enough to attempt to get it. Such stories are so common theme in campaigns against and art based on drug addiction. But there are people who have fallen to such conditions without any of addictions we have mentioned. So, are there addictions we aren’t aware of? I today find myself in such a condition. I get enough to eat but no other source of self-fulfillment. Am I then addicted to something? Yes. I am addicted to life itself and it.is only power of this addiction that keeps me living though like with the drug addict, it is in my best interest to give up the addiction, and like any addict conscious of his conditions, I make attempts to rid myself of it, I fail and get throwbacks. The faith in people seems to be another such addiction.
I think suffering does make us conscious. That is why happiest souls never stop to consider that they are happy. And the paradox of happiness – those who go seeking after happiness never find it. Happiness is the state of being unconscious, even ignorant. Where consciousness pops in, where one takes the bite at the fruit of knowledge, all the suffering of existence comes with a god-like power to being. The consciousness of a thing is the knowledge of suffering it can cause one. One only thinks of roads one walk on, when one hits his or her feet against a rock and hurts feet.
I am scared. Everywhere I look, I find such strangeness, such misery. Everyone here suffers. And though they all suffer, they continue to suffer each of them alone. So much suffering. I don’t wish to live here anymore. This world is too much for me, I wish to go back mother, such a lovely world you had given me. Everyone was innocent and no one suffered. Where have you gone now leaving me among these strange people?
Would you hate me if you saw me now? I have inherited your love for books but have none of the qualities or values you expected me to have. I do not have your love for the nation of India, I didn’t grow up to be a soldier or even a cricketer. In fact, I didn’t grow up to anyone of any significance.
I don’t even have your patriotism. I am not too especially moved to serve my country. I don’t think you can love people of a nation without developing a dislike for others.
And I have a great dislike of armies. I find the very idea of martyrdom or sacrifice irritating, pathological. I love individual soldier in as far as he or she risks their life to save the life of someone else. But I don’t like the way how such amazing individuals choose to become puppets in the hands of politicians who use them to encourage xenophobia.
But there is more to it – my not joining army. I am a coward. Whether it comes to physical strength, discipline, the presence of mind or just brute courage, I have in me none of those qualities that make a good soldier.
I prefer instead wasting my life away telling stories no one wants to listen while people take away everything I inherited from you.
You show a great belief in the institution of marriage through your life as well as the pattern of your general thinking should suggest someone otherwise, I don’t even share that belief.
I do not have your interest in different philosophical schools of Hinduism beyond an outsider’s curiosity.
I shudder to imagine the hatred you would have felt if you had read ‘An Unsung Song’ or some of my stories. Would you have understood how someone caught by a story just can’t help telling it? Would you hate me for the tears I caused? For drifting through life with a quiet stoicism that is inexplicable to everyone around me? For wanting and attempting to kill me so many times?
And what about my love for you? When you were still around, I figuratively could not see your face wrinkle in any kind of anguish, even though I knew that you were faking those face expressions to bend me according to your will. I kept that learned disability all my life and have suffered so much for this. But I ain’t holding it against you, instead, it is something I am grateful for.
My point is even though I loved you so much, I was unable to cry at your death. It didn’t even occur to me that it was something absurd till Camus, two years later, would introduce a ‘stranger’ just by the fact of his inability to cry at the death of his mother. Like that character, I too am often at loss about the date or even year of your death. And the same thing happened at the death of my grandmother and at the death of other people and pets whom I loved so intensely.
There is something in sight of dead bodies that keep me from weeping. Or perhaps it is just my heart is too dumb to understand its loss quickly. Because I do cry afterwards, am haunted by dreams which create an illusion in which you (or other.dead people) are alive and this illusion sometimes survive long after I wake up. But no, that is now something rare. I don’t remember you or dream about you these days except very rarely.
And now when I came across the old pictures a while ago, I discovered that your face from my memory was different from one in photos. See! I didn’t even remember how you look. I think I don’t think of you enough sometimes not at all for months.
You thought so highly of me, imagining me to grow up to be someone I failed, nah, never even tried to be. I won’t ask for forgiveness since you can’t give it anymore and I can’t ask it anymore. I don’t know how to end this letter. So I will just leave it here unfinished like everything else.
There are more than one bitches my sister had of this name and I address all of them. I address particularly the one who died that day of electric shock when we kids were busy playing video games. We couldn’t even guess the reason of your anguish till long afterwards. You were tied to an iron container by a steel chain tied to your collar. A naked wire touched the container. Current from wire passed from wire to continue to chain to you and you died after suffering from shock for a few seconds. We saw you suffer in agony. And we couldn’t do anything.
And you Rosie, the one who suffered from epilepsy attack. Our house was filled with dogs during those years – Changa (a name inherited by several Pomeranian from their dead predecessor just as name Rosie was inherited by several labs), Babli (a street dog that was never accepted in our house for that reason, how snobbish we could get!) and Lovely (the fierce thing who lived the longest of all dogs I have in our house). I never learned how Bablie who was discarded to streets faired in her life. I only saw her once years afterwards and she seemed to have done comparatively far better than quiet, boring, sexless life that my family has forced on its ‘beloved’ pets. Only Cattle had their need for sex fulfiled in our house and that was purely for economic purposes. Not that cattle are better for that purpose, I saw a little calf Nandani that I raised from a few weeks old lose her feet. I have cried for her sake long after she was gone even long after she was gone. Even a parrot died after years of never seeing another of its kind in its small cage, its wings that had long forgotten to fly only a burden on its little shoulders.
Do you wonder what became of Lovely? She lived to old age to a time when she was completely incapable of moving. My cousin brother, to give him his due, took good care of her in her last days. I wonder what she thought of in her last days. Long days with no possibility of any physical movements. Did she expect us to make her better? I sometimes wish dogs didn’t love humans, worship us like gods because we don’t deserve it. We aren’t good friends either, or even friends.
You Rose, every time you suffered from an epileptic attack, the whole family would gather around you. I would hold you in my arms and you would lay in them trembling, your eyes looking up at us, hoping, expecting us to save you. How many times did I let you down, Rosie? you never gave up, you just couldn’t. Of everyone I have failed, it is failing you I regret the most. I don’t know what else to say to you. I remembered how you once fell from the roof and were more afraid of being scolded than hurt by fall. I remember how no chains were ever strong enough to keep you tied. You broke them, made them lose to get out of them or sometimes we had to get rid of them because they gave you rashes on necks. I remember how you would run away and out, perhaps too tired of caged existence our house gave to animals and how I had to go out seeking you out. I remembered how no amounts of food was enough for you. I remember how you would greet me every day when I came back from school.
I am sorry to have failed you and all the other animals. If my family members have faced misfortunes, they can not have any claims of innocence, especially not me. I wish I was a better human being. As if some knot got my eyes, I could not cry on your death, the very least you deserved. But I have done it several times since not that these narcissist mournings of mine serve you in any way. As is often the case with these letters, my heart doesn’t wish to end the letter – it feels as though something always remains unsaid and my mind is clueless as to what it could be, it tries to reach its hand out in darkness hoping to get hold of it and gasps nothing. So I guess this shall be goodbye.
Music keeps me from killing myself. I love music and, probably the most dependable of all things and people when I am having an anxiety attack but it also seems to be the greatest obstacle in my way to taking the leap of faith to the darkest destiny.
Those who look and want to be like stars won’t understand that stars are doomed to surrounded by darkness – and nothing but darkness for millions of miles on all sides. But perhaps, worse is the misfortune of those who are surrounded by darkness anyway and yet don’t know how to shine.
When I die, there are certain last wishes I should like to make – consider them a sort of will. Though I don’t see anyone giving a dam about them and anyway I would die in some street corner and it could be weeks till someone will remember to check on me. But if you want to grant me the last wish (for most normal humans have a tendency to show mercy especially when it costs them nothing), the following are some of my wishes:
- I wish all my photos deleted and destroyed. Same for all chats, social media accounts etc. I could ask same fate for my writings but I don’t see them surviving anymore. I don’t want any memorials, ceremonies etc. The fewer and less the people know about me, the more comfortable I will be.
- Let no one mention me or my name or refer to me in any way… Well, to say anything good about me – I can’t keep people from cursing me; especially those who aren’t on talking terms on me should have no claim of this kind.
- If anything I ever write should become popular after my death (I know it is just a daydream), the money should go to orphanages instead of any family relations. And free epub copies should always be available for those who can’t afford to pay for luxurious suits of publishers.
- Anyone who has ever told me I was depressing for them gets no claim for shedding tears on my death.
- I don’t want any religious last rites. My body should go for scientific research.
- No one gets blamed for my death. These notes should be sufficient proof that I have been clinically depressed for years. So no one gets blame or credit for my suicide. No people, no gods either. It is all me. If they are any immediate causes apparent, they should be ignored.
- Let no one pretend to know or understand me.
- An inquisitive mind can read what I write but should not dwell on what goes on in my mind. For I am a suicide and remember what Nietzsche said about looking too far into abysses.
- In particular, let no one bother or try to remember my birth and death dates. I see those dates no more than shackles in which time has kept me captivated and, anyway, reminder induced emotions don’t interest me.