Weaklings endure the strong commit suicide: a polemic against life
Cursed to live with pain and suffering. He stoically pushes on. Advancing every day with low energy. Yet alive and breathing. The hero we say. Wow so impressive. Cheering on the fighter. Surviving through and through. The fighter does not feel the same way. His audience revels in his continuous battle. The fighter calls himself weak belittling his own gain and achievement. The audience shuns his self torment. Lift yourself up warrior. You are powering through this obstacle. You can do it. We believe in you. A sense of belonging captures his soul and he trudges forward.
The sufferer trounces in his own rebellion. Allowing his pain to control his perpetuity. Wishing to die but sympathisers cheer endlessly. They refuse to concede following down the street. He endures from positive reinforcement. Such beautiful unity. Yet such blasphemous coercion. He is unable to make his own decision, riding on the voices of others. Those others chanting his name. He listens to them elongating his suffering. Ensnared in a scenario where those voices praise him but will judge when he is gone. He will not hear the judgement but the possibility is sufficient to prevent action. He is subject to others' wishes. They want him to live for some selfless selfish reason. Some dubious enchantment in their own moral concoction. The sufferer persists in spite of the praiseworthy insolence placing false hope in his head. Worsening the mental infection a few years down the road. Well-intentioned but eventually negatively consequential.
Those with obvious daring injuries receive such praise. Those fighting cancer or other nefarious diseases. What about the pained individual. The chronic illness that goes unnoticed. Nobody cares but everyone will judge. Yet the unwillingness to proceed with the imminent death plan is fear. Death is final. An end to his own existence. Pain sucks but is nothingness better. No pain is no pain but then again there is no joy. No laughter no family no fun. Struggle but at least have some highs. At least be alive or take the plunge to demise. A disgraceful act to the public but that shouldn’t weigh on anyone’s shoulders. This decision is personal. One that requires conviction. The more thinking the less likely. The more sane the less aggressive. It is in madness that the action takes place. Spontaneously in the psychotic push to dethrone the ultimate despair. It is in a drunken state of despair that the ambition for death reaches its pinnacle. A few beers and shit gets real.
In such a state, either the numbness takes hold calming nerves or the pain swerves into cataclysmic shock. Impulsive to act on the very evil his religious teachings have forbid. Suffering has outweighed such transcendent causes. Hell seems to be a better alternative. Yet at this point in the journey, such inquiries of divinity and sin is usually foreign. The drive for liberation is immense. Now what? How to go about it? Scenarios swarm the brain. Step off the ledge, walk into a busy street, pull the trigger. Numerous options are compiled and planned. Drawing a socratic link to visualise the eventual doom. Doom to others is salvation to the sufferer. Pondering his next move. When is the best possible time. The day never comes. The thoughts continue to creep into the mind but he doesn’t allow his impulsivity to act at the end. A weak fool who cannot pull the trigger. Unable to follow through on his diabolical plan. He is no hero but a fraud with a death wish incapable of executing to fruition.
He allows himself to suffer day after day. Recognising it will not get better. Nihilistic, cynical and angry he acts out. He complains and contemplates. Still he cannot do it. It isn’t so much that life is good but that he is fearful of the next step. Falsely optimistic that anything will change. Disconcerted with what others want. There is no longer a familial weight crowding his existence. No fear mongering or sympathy pleas for his continuance. It has nothing to do what external desires. The individual is able to cogently pick up the gun turn the barrel to his forehead and calmly say goodnight. Content with his life. Too much on his body and not worth the persistent agony. A life of pure distress and overwhelming disaster. Seneca may offer him some needless advice. Be a man and take your life. A fair justified rationale for dying. A heroic stance against the petrifying monstrosity of bodily decay. No one should be forced to endure that which is only of godly creation for human deprivation.
Tamed by some external force whether that be religious or familial guilt. He carefully consoles himself. He has endured for some time. As the days go by it gets harder but he is in no rush. He complains but realises he is a coward. No guts to pull the trigger or swerve into incoming traffic. He may as well live like everyone else. Following a wretched routine exasperated by painful spasms wielding themselves accordingly. Tripping up the steps to his next course or fumbling to his job. Yelling in the nighttime waking his wife. He has his moments but he is also a man. A man with a job and a family. He has no time to do anything other than provide. He has placed himself in the company of society. Stressed beyond belief but addressing the necessary quarters. Uncomfortable but successful. Soon his differences will be maligned. To a degree, the external perspective is mitigated. He has a limp but he heads to the station like everyone else. Treated the same and expected to excel the same.
Oh how nice he is treated humanely. A feeble minded brat that stooped himself in the societal picture. Not only is everything harder he doesn’t get cut any slack. He is a worker like all others. He has yanked his fate and that is final. He cannot back out now. He is in it. There is no escape. So much responsibility. It is eating him alive but he must continue. The show must go on. He must persevere. Depression rises but he endures. Marching forward endlessly. There is no time to think nor reconsider. Guilted by the family he has created. Children he will not leave. A system he is entrenched with more sorrow and less bliss. This is the life he has found himself one of failed optimistic promises. One of gradual increase, following the teenage fatalistic aspirations. A hope for a new beginning. Tenuously deliberating a cautious tale into oblivion. A daring initiative melted into harmonious decay. Seeking life in a lifeless ordeal. Such cruelty befitting he who hopes for salvation in the desert of despair.
Cursed to suffer. A lonely existence perpetuated by endless solitude. Desiring company but despising it simultaneously. Wishing for solitude but distraught with loneliness. No solace exists. The absurd entangles its web to strangle the sufferer. He toils but is swept up in infamy. His family doesn’t understand him. Their empathy falls on deaf ears. Those closest try their best but fail miserably. They cannot feel his pain but insistently pursue their sympathetic charm unadulterated and yet unwelcome. The solitude amongst his loved ones that hits the core. He can desert. Leave it all behind. Then what? All his problems still remain. So the stress of familial supply ceases but the stress of loneliness increases. His dialectic is strong and agonising. There is no escape but one. The fatal ending that he is unwilling to execute. He may be willing to leave all that he has built. Forsake for the woods. Become a hermit away from the noise. Peace and quiet but loneliness. The less noise the more time to ponder the absurdity. To struggle with the dubious reconciliation. There is no victory. At least alive.
Absolute abandonment provides the solace to the agony. He will shrink to nothingness. Away from everything. His senses do not allow this thought to penetrate any deeper. The conscious mind pushes back against any further action. The slogans of live live live emerge as a defence mechanism. The Bee Gees begin playing in his head with the hard disco sync. Shaking his head to the unavoidable end. It is time. Yet again he falters. The solution is right in front of his face and he cannot do it. He can easily step off his ledge but he does not. Too many days have I endured. Now for naught? No way. Maybe a few days more. Cioran would be pleased to see his statement in action. Suffered enough along the agonising journey. Can’t hurt more to keep going. The bodily descent is inevitable but we’ve made it this far. More pain will arrive shortly but can that truly overpower the will to do so. The spectacle of death is simply not in the cards for the rationalised individual. Calm and collected it just doesn’t mesh. Depressed as hell but unwavering in his affirmation of selfhood. Wanting to die but not willing to do it.
Hold tight to the nihilistic tendencies. Personality will properly evolve with the painful experience. Negativity will spawn more scornful resentment. Might as well live to your fullest. If you’re gonna do it, do it. In each episode of intensive pain the thought will return. The promising answer is in the negative. The spontaneous zealot aware of his mental complexity will find a nuanced escape. It is amidst the psychosis, overwhelmed by stimuli that the action becomes plausible. Self administered poison is a desperate ploy. Life is a roller coaster. For some it a deep rabbit hole. Awaiting the ride to turn upward and maybe it doesn’t ever. Fate is funny like that. You will never know. A cure may be found, the body may miraculously recover. Hope always lingers somewhere in the soul. Nothingness is painless but it lacks beer and sex. Weighing the odds is a struggling assault. It is the pondering doom that suicide is taken out of context but with the good stuff it is not even a question. Death is the end maybe do not go out on your own terms. Maybe wait for fate to bring you some good news. It’s been cruel but hey it’s a bumpy ride there may be some ice cream on the other side. Just wait and see to how it plays out. It hurts but it’s amusing.
Much of the time depression will hold you down. Cowardice keeps you in line but then again time to think and enjoy more. More horror will force itself your way. Inevitably a disgusting future. Those brief moments of joy will be like no other. Those hobbies that are enjoyed will be worthwhile. So yell and drink. Yeah it’s tough but at least life is lived. Life is enjoyed to some degree. Periodic tales of excellence. Much squandering and despair. Pain lingering through the years. Suffering an output of infinite genocide. Alive and kicking. Screw pain its a fucker. It is too late to give in. Might as well keep going. Middle finger to the sky grab a beer smoke a cigarette and relax. All is good, hurray.
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