Discourse on Emotions Part III: Suicide
To continue my discourse on emotion, I will begin to tackle deeper emotions:
I have expended all my energy on these thoughts that I cannot bring to submission. This debauchery in my mind… this hedonistic, envious flare of self-loathing degeneracy, gnaws at the polar ends of my personality. The angel that hangs over my right shoulder begs me to uphold the gilded image of my face, to be selfless, and loving, to love and not beckon for anything else. I should uphold the virtues attributed to the warmest of souls, for that embodies respect of the highest order, Godlike and worthy of admiration, says he. But the devil that crawls on my left shoulder says otherwise. Is not my personality a mirrored depiction of my power, my pride, my envy? You want it all, says he, and at no lengths do I have to bend at my knees to bring anyone to deference. Humility and meekness are traits of the weak. And you know yourself, you are not humble, it goes against the very nature of your being! Should you go against your humanly nature?
And amidst these two warring forces, my head drifts in confusion between either side. Contusion at the temples and tired bloodshot eyes must be the physical manifestations of my insomnia.
Do you have any idea what it is like to not be able to sleep? The impending day brings only a foreshadowing of agony and another day of tired, restless heartache. Do you know what it feels to be tired, and dying in your own bed, but not able to fall asleep? The bedsheets begin to suffocate your skin, and you can't breathe. Are these thoughts real? And the moment you do fall into sleep, one can't really fathom how you even got there, because in a moment's notice, it's daytime and you come upon the disheartening conclusion that last night was yes, another restless night, and today will be another tired morning.
There is nothing heroic about this kind of self-loathing pain. The days become less and less real, and there is no life to live anymore. At this point, one realizes the irrelevance of living life, that it is an act, a feeble, tired, insipid act. And the hatred of my self comes at this realization: not only do I realize the futility of maudlin melancholy and that it is a depiction of my failing to live life, but that I only fall deeper into the will because I do not have the willpower to climb back up. I realize all this, and yet I seek take the path of the wide and the weak. I, who knows the sophistry of my foolish act, only seeks false redemption and rationalization because I realize the depth and absolute terrifying formidable beast called life ahead of me. Everything important becomes trivial at most, and death seems to be an only outlet.
There is nothing heroic about this kind of self-loathing pain. The days become less and less real, and there is no life to live anymore. At this point, one realizes the irrelevance of living life, that it is an act, a feeble, tired, insipid act. And the hatred of my self comes at this realization: not only do I realize the futility of maudlin melancholy and that it is a depiction of my failing to live life, but that I only fall deeper into the will because I do not have the willpower to climb back up. I realize all this, and yet I seek take the path of the wide and the weak. I, who knows the sophistry of my foolish act, only seeks false redemption and rationalization because I realize the depth and absolute terrifying formidable beast called life ahead of me. Everything important becomes trivial at most, and death seems to be an only outlet.
This is suicide.
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