(A short fiction by Sidharth Vardhan
February 17, 2018)
Find all parts of ‘Diary of a Cynical Suicide’ here
I think of death as a friend. I told you how mere thought of killing myself makes it easier to go through troublesome nights. And ain’t it a sign of good friend? That mere idea of meeting her should assure you? I have see my aunt, mother and grandmother suffer miserably. It was their life that had become ugly and not death. Death came like an older friend and took their misery away in a single moment.
Perhaps Gaiman is right. You would look at Death and think that you have already met her. She would be that approachable, that friendly.
You tell me that there are friends enough in this world. Yes there are. I know that. But their good intentions don’t give results. They just don’t have that kind of powers. Death can end my sufferings in a moment.
One of Gaiman’s character Prez, a sort of ideal US president, gets a chance to see different versions of US after death. I wish that would be case with me too. I don’t care for US, India or any other country for that matter. But I do wish to see world’s, all possible ones, good ones, bad ones, all sorts. The whole Doctor Who-esque thingy. Now that would be a death to look forward to. … or, or better still, I should love to be Dream’s librarian – and read books that haven’t been written or left unifinished. All unwritten books must be most beautiful, they grow common and vulgar only once they get written. Writers, poems and artists are no lovers of art as they are thought to be, they destroy beauty of things by making them real.
You perhaps think it ironical that a person who wants to see the worlds should want to kill himself. Why not see this world through? You ask me. But there is no irony, this body has its limitations which make it difficult to move and I wish to be rid of them to be able to move freely.
I think of hypocrisy of human beings. It is okay to kill others as well as getting killed in a war that will take zillions of lives but not kill yourself at home.
I don’t want to see the whole world. I don’t even want to see my own face ot the back of my eyelids. Why does it have to be death that’s so final? Whydoea one have to make the effort to die and then to decompose and let the body die slowly and yet leaving the bones behind. Is there no way to just stop existing. For a miracle or a condom to make one’s existence come to an end. For ur body to disintegrate at once in such small atoms as would again give the illusion of non existence.
The trouble with choosing the method of suicide is fear of failure. No method that gives 100 percent guarantee. Somebody always comes around by the time you gets drowned and decides to play good smaratian. And one is afraid of failure becuase it is likely to cause some permanent body damage and get police interested, two things which in turn might make it difficult to make a second attempt. The worst of fear is of causing a permanent disability to oneself and having to live as a liability on others.
I sit here in a barabar’s shop, waiting for my turn. It is one of those things that makes on wanna kill himself. The montoneousity of life. The badly dubbed-to-Hindi South Indian movie with those clichéd gravity defying action sequences doesn’t help.
Perhaps these notes make me think of everything too negatively. Perhaps, you will argue, that I should focus on positive reason. On 13 reasons why not and all that trash. But I’m afraid there is no such reason left. And there is nothing that gives me happiness. Tbere is an interview for job tommorow. I might not get it and thus create another example of being useless to this world or I might not get it and earn money for a life I don’t want. Neither of alternatives give me happiness
Today is my interview and I feel hollow inside. My heart seems to have suddenly shrinked and is no longer big enough to pump blood to whole body. May be that is why I feel so tired and hungry. I am hungry but I couldn’t eat because there is a strange taste in mouth and it spoils the taste of anything I eat. All my breakfast went to waste. I hate it when that happens – so many people dying of hunger. And I am here wasting food. Actually this food shall still feed some animal. It is the food I eat which is utterly wasted.
It is said in Old Testament that it was God who created order out of chaos. Now we know that there is no good reason to believe in God and so there is no order.
Similarly we have so long believed that God(s) created human beings out of their image. But now we know that it is reverse – it was we who created God in our image. This gives creation of God a purpose – of being an assumption that helped her explain things that weren’t explainable otherwise. A creation always has a purpose – no matter how subtle, or creator won’t create it. Creator, who are not themselves created, are on other hand orphaned and devoid of purpose. God, turned from creator to creation, now has a purpose. Humanity, suddenly turned from creation to creator – is now without purpose, orphaned out of a creator, it searches for a meaning of life. I wonder if God of old times, if he was to be real would have suffered same existional crisis as we do now – feeling like an orphan amidst chaos. May that is why he created order – for a diversion.
Perhaps, some philosophers will argue, by creating humans, the imagined God of old times, was giving his own existence a meaning. Just as in reality, it was we who were giving our existence a meaning by creating Gods and telling ourselves that those gods created ourselves
But now that it has become absurd to believe in God, we are again devoid of a meaning. I think that at some point in our lives we all start asking ourselves this ridiculous question. I think it is born out of leisure. We are no longer living in jungle and expected to look for food and be afriad of prey everyday. That is where the curse of curiosity overtook us. No doubt, the first philosophers of the world were in Greece where people were free enough for such useless questions to be asked. And without gods, we have no traditional ways to answer the question
Sartre would tell you to find your own meaning – in love, children, art or literature. But I wonder why I should go for trouble? The lack of meaning troubles me and derives me to kill myself but why should I prefer search for a make-pretend meaning over killing myself?
I thought at some point in my life I will get over this great grief in life, especially now that the many of the reasons for depression are no longer existent. But no, I guess I have become a sort of Lazarus – you can’t be reborn without scratches from underworld. Everyone who sees me perhaps feel more conscious of their grief – that must be why they are so quick to talk about their griefs.
Im full of this darkness that I carry within myself. The darkness of old times, I died a long time ago and now am back from underworld but you do not return from such a place unscratched. I still have inside me those hellish fires, fires that have black flames, that spread darkness instead of light, and that can burn one for centuries without ever killing or reducing one to ashes. I am Lazarus of Leonid Andreyev’s story that makes anyone who might come in contact with him conscious of their own darkness. Unable to contain those hellish fires I put them here and am slightly shocked to see the instruments I am used to write do not burn, do not turn pale, and thus learn yet again that never born is better than the living and the dead. But I’m afraid those hellish fires will rekindle themselves in heart of anyone who reads these notes. Like Satanic words murmered in ears of Eve, they poke people with thorn of curiosity and make them conscious of their orphaned existence. Thus, though not yet, I WILL one day destroy these notes – too dangerous to you, living souls, to survive.
I lie in my bed, haunted by ghost of uncompleted conversations. I think people who mourn for the dead, people who stalk others, people who kill themselves, people who cry for no reason are all haunted by ghosts of uncompleted conversations. I complete them in my mind – I always get to say the cleverest lines, the other person is rendered speechless and guilty and is crying but I’m cruel in those imagined conversations. I don’t let myself feel sorry for them, I treat them most terribly without any conscince.
I struggle with uneasy breadths and excited heartbeats. I shiver but not of coldness. I don’t have fever but I wake up exhausted if I ever do sleep. It is as if the essence of my body became fluid and evaporated away in sun of the nightmare I saw last night. I don’t what disease it is. It has no name for me. Don’t tell me it’s name if you know one. I’m a coward who is too scared to name it. I chose to call it life – and I know no doctor who would advise me to get rid of it.
Another anxiety attack and only person I can talk to about it is the person I don’t want to talk to about it.
I want to die tommorow. I just wish there was one person who could hold my hand and tell me, “I understand. I understand you tried to live but failed. You fought against it and lost. I understand that there is no alternative for you now.” And I would not have felt so alone.
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.
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 an 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 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.