Since I was a little boy, I loved to write and tell stories. So now I guess, my new addiction is earning badges on suicide project and becoming a writer for those on the other side to read and enjoy. Something that could be vindicative to suicide itself. But I guess the better option is to foster my inner sense of altruism. So here I go.
So here I am, aged 28, going back to South Africa after failing to find work, still living with my parents, graduated with an electronics engineering degree and scoring only a 3rd class honours(basically just passed) – fought lifelong OCD. At the age of 5 I panicked that I would go blind, that bought me to the age of 6( shit-scared after eating a bunch of sweets, I would get diabetes). I always distrusted myself. After a weird situation at my grandfather’s porch, my aunt asked me why I am so sad; I exclaimed “it is this bloody head of mine”… and fast forward 10 years…
I was 4 one day, went to the Kindergarten and I was staring at the clouds. Something happened that day. I got this extreme feeling of a “movie” that started that day in my life. I thought of myself in the 3rd person looking down onto myself. I thought “I am only 4 years old now. Let me begin this “movie”” of my life.” I envisioned a movie starting and thought to myself how this “movie” will end?
Everything I would experience can be traced to that 1 day that I “started”, realising the vulnerability which was the “I” in me and consumed everything I knew and was. I either will make it, or fuck it up, I thought.
Since I emerged into my late adolescence, I juggled severe body focused obsessions, obsessive thoughts, and had to work through all of this, and just passed school. The only thing I excelled at was music and art. I was also a natural storyteller and researcher. So people admired me for these pursuits. Unfortunately, my laziness denied me a life as a musician, and I am stuck with nowhere to go, chasing my tail like a feeble minded Labrador. Throughout my time, I did my best to try and meet the opposite sex; tried tinder, okCupid, meet me… to no avail. At 25, got a facial abscess, that left me bedridden and even after removed, the ramifications still bothers me. yes a 3rd of life’s expectancy has passed by now, and a good quarter of humanity would have been dead a few hundred years ago, and not even mentioning the Renaisance, and the Norman quest. I get it. Is life akin to a sick joke, a coin toss, a game of chess? I chuckle…
Funny enough, I get excitement thinking about my life 20 years ago. When I was still young and had a time to challenge life head-on. Now, everything seems pitiful and dull.
It brings me back to Camus: “the only real question is the one concerning suicide”.
So, what am I supposed to do now? The old fat lady of chance sang and I lost my prima donna: “age”. If you think about it, life is a meaningless wrestle with age. Father time is the big white elephant we are all witnessing but no one mentions. Is that what they call ‘cliche’ – It is a joke. I mean, you know you will lose time and yet you fight for it. So the human predicament is a joke in and of itself. And then when too much of that said “time” has passed, you miss it so greatly. Then after all that shit, you start guilt tripping yourself. You know that one time you did that cruel thing to someone? Oh wait, you were a kid, so maybe your “neural pathways” wasn’t formed yet. You pet yourself a bit and tell yourself you are all “A OK”. On the contrary, you know you are an oddball and lost. And you cry at night against your will and violating the big giant aphorisms of “masculinity” once more – ‘no man shall cry’.
Everyday you wake up to a world you entered only 3 hours ago. A world so vivid. A world they call “the dream world” where you can fly. you morph into a personhood with a distinctness, and abstractness, unattached to the world you enter when you awaken. One where you are the show and everything revolves around your center of mass. You ask yourself “why can’t I just stay”. In fact, it is called ” a dream” for a reason. The dream world lets you slide into a place with much more adventure and poise than you could ever wish to ascertain in your waking life. And then you realise, another fucking contradiction. Dream state or wake state? No, fuck this. Death sounds better. At least you don’ t need to pick.
I can’t leave life because my family enjoys my companionship. I Sincerely love my parents and my siblings. I cannot let my family suffer. It is a catch22 – should I leave and let my family suffer, or should I suffer and stay, and become a transient in the house of my parents? I cringe thinking about this decision. I am a prisoner in exile; from the day I was born, I had a heightened creative intellect( not the one they want in school), and I realised my genetic makeup wasn’t meant for this world. I seeminglessly joke that when the time for me has cometh I will probably talk. Talking has been my way, and writing, to release me from such a vain world. I had “imaginary friends” gosh, I hate that word. I just made people up and talked to them. Why do the world call them “imaginary friends” when they appear more real to you than anything else. I felt they were much more intellectually superior than the ones my age, so I had to make people up as a result. And yes, they call you “crazy” but the world is fucking crazy, you have seen nothing yet, is what I say to them.
I so wish I can leave. I wish I can pack my bags, clean up my desk, and go to clinic x to get myself euthanised for once and for all. I do not need to worry about slaving myself away to a pesky boss grinding his palms together for the coin to roll in, while awaiting to cane me silently into oblivion, and firing me. Why the hell should I do “another man’s job” like the Stoic Seneca said and exclaimed “do not let one doeth another man’s job, leave instead” I wish I can rest in peace and let this all go. I know what I am and simply not willing to continue living on ground zero. And yet I ask myself “what the hell is the problem then”.
I simply am just too screwed up to think. I just do not care anymore. I have lost my dignity and I have no shame anymore.
I have come to terms with life. I know there is nothing to it. It is just a senseless road to nowhere.
But is this my life? Am I so barred to this existence that I really CANNOT leave? Why do I really want to leave but feel so guilty?
What scares the shit out of me is having to look for work now. The employer responsible for initially interviewing me, ended up hiring another man and going back on his promise. Needingless to say, how I stuttered in the interview. I lost all my words and looked like a fucking clown. Even then, the dude was good at letting me save face I guess.
But I don’t want this. I enjoy doing nothing. Being nothing. I enjoy sitting here in the house of my parents and working hard for them, not having an employer’s eyes on you ready to fire you.
Life to me is a painting canvass. It reminds me of that book from Cormac McCarthy where I want to refer to myself as “the man”. I do not see myself as anything anymore. Just another experience of sensations and impulses. Have you noticed it too? As a child they told you “the tooth fairy” will rock up when you pull your tooth. Daddy and mommy had to tell you that, and sneak in, pretending to be yours truly in order to keep you from seeing the world for what it is. As soon as the teenage years came, you realised, “it was all a bloody lie”. The tooth fairy, trolls, elves, the good old cartoon characters, yes, baby, all but a fucking dream. If life was this great, why did they lie to us? Why do they pull a veil over the eyes of children to make them “believe” in life? We are obviously all here because of a primordial selfish need to survive.
I want to be a “nothing”.
They dare calling me “depressed”. So I ask myself “is it me, or is it the world”.