Crouching Person in the Room

Killing Myself

Humans are cursed with the notion of self awareness. Through pages of history writers, painters, poets and scholars have dabbled with the notion of existence and, yet, here we are left as utterly confused as when we began. Millenniums of development and advancement of the mind that the Homo SapienĀ possess has not awarded any progress to the true understanding of our being. The notion of what life is remains as much as a mystery to Daniel Dennett as it was to Plato. Yet, here we are, each one of us, trying to understand what we are doing in this utterly confounded Universe as each moment passes by, ceasing to be.

But the curse does not terminate on attempting to understand the idea of existence. It propels itself, exploring the world beyond the being. If life elicits a conversation, death draws in a debate. The mere essence of ceasing to be leads one to ponder into depth of the human mind and fathom what might be beyond. It leads to a sense of wonderment to realize that the as many discussions there can be found about life, even greater discussions can be achieved by death: it’s complete opposite; or can they even be considered antonyms? Is not one an extension of other?

Alas, I deter from the true path I set onto tonight. The idea of committing an act considered heinous enough in itself, that people choose to shun even talking about it; avoid it at all costs. An idea that has plagued people’s mind since time immemorial. While the realms of the unknown have stopped some, it has craved others into its clutches. An act arising from the mere consequence of having a mind that can think.

Treading on the path of life, one unavoidably hits a roadblock. An inevitable response to the situation is to attempt to move beyond the road block. To take things head on, as they say; and that, probably, can be considered the right thing to do.

Then arises another situation, where you realise that the road you have been traveling on, is not a road at all. You were not even heading anywhere. One can be sure that they saw a road ahead of them; they even asked for directions along the way and, yet, the discovery of a non existence of the path leaves one in shambles. Efforts in vain, stranded in the middle of nowhere, the person has nothing else to do but to cease to be.

And that is precisely what I want to do tonight.

Today,

I die,

not a man,

but a Phoenix in its utmost glory.

For from the ashes of the burnt rises the belief to begin again.

Attempting to take one’s life resonates the idea of unable to live with the self. For all the glory that the minds in the history have disputed about the living and beyond, a certain fact remains. The self is not constant. If one is ready to go the extent of killing oneself, the person should commence and kill the idea that they have for themselves. Decimate the person that they hate so much, and become the new. When one cannot stand living the way they are, they should stop doing it and find a new way to live. For it is never that paths cease to exist, it is our inability to see the new ones.

True salvation cannot be achieved by ending the tread along the path that no longer remains. It is achieved from the ability to march till the end in the depths of the unknown. Walking up to death myself probably seems satisfying today, but it will never be as satisfying as seeing him smile as he greets me, bowing down at the end of whatever path I make after I kill myself.