Pluto
Cat Extremist
- Dec 27, 2020
- 5,046
The Supernova Analogy
It reminds me a bit of what happens to ageing stars when they go through their demise. The mighty yet delicate balancing act of the inward gravity versus outward expansive pressure can no longer be sustained as the heaviest elements complete their fusion process. Suddenly, outward expansion gives way and then... kaboom!
In this analogy, the outward pressure is the force of hope, along with the strategies of band-aid solutions to keep the days passing. Buying stuff until it becomes boring. Chasing thrills until they are meaningless. Working until its hollowness becomes unavoidable. Socialising until the futility of being accepted is undeniable. 'Healing' until it's apparent that no progress was ever being made. Believing in justice until it's clear that there is no such thing.
Regression to Childhood
Sometimes it feels like I'm face-to-face with my childhood self. I'm a naïve Catholic schoolboy again, seemingly somewhat normal and with no idea of what's coming. Life took many twists and turns since then, yet decades worth of evolution suddenly resembles a fragile layer of autumn leaves that will fly off in the mildest of breezes. The body has aged but I have not. What happened to my schoolboy dreams of being exceptional, or even being normal?
Suddenly, everything is about my family again, despite largely cutting them off countless years ago. The role that I was assigned – the whipping boy, the one who didn't matter, the laughing-stock, the undefended outlet for their sadistic tendencies – simply served as a foundation for adult life. Straight to the lowest of social status. The weirdo in the workplace. A battle to overcome, only to fall into silence. A tale of tragedy, never to be heard, as even the vastest ocean of sorrow doesn't matter when the individual in question has no value.
At every age and stage, it seems my role in life was to be a lamb among wolves; to highlight the cruel tendencies of others in a difficult world. Each has their backstory. There's the upper-class person keen to assert their superiority. The man striving to prove his social dominance. The woman needing to vent her fury at the male collective. The successful person seeking a dark backdrop to shine against. The teenager venomously appalled by society. The happy person convinced that despair is merely a choice made by losers. Please get your whips ready and form an orderly queue.
Regrets of Futility
I have hurt people because I was so stubborn with my optimism. I tried to connect socially, but it was just a matter of time before it fell apart. I tried to forge relationships over and over, but the ingredients of my childhood made me nothing but a false hope. Someone who looks human, but the most fundamental ingredients - love, vitality, passion - have forever been foreign. A fraud who is forever trying to be real.
Suddenly, there is a tremendous sadness that I have lived for so long in a world where there was never a valid place for me. I forced something unnatural and now can only look back on countless years of pointless humiliation. I've become the direct opposite of an inspirational person who proves that hard work and optimism pay off in the end. I never wanted this.
Murder By Proxy
There was a philosophical debate in my mind today. There was someone on the forum with a signature quote along the lines of: "Just because it's suicide, doesn't mean it's not murder." Is it the perfect crime?
A lot of people I've interacted with have experienced Dark Triad relationships, be it one or more parents, soulless abusers in the community, ill-selected intimate partners. This is like an organic lifeform interacting with a chainsaw. A cow making its way through a slaughterhouse. There is no reasoning with a machine disguised as a human. What remains is a simple formula of damage being a product of trust invested multiplied by time spent together, minus any positive counterbalancing factors in life.
They say that the children who were placed in the care of Josef Mengele were excited and relieved to meet him. Perhaps he seemed trustworthy, funny or charming; an island of relief within an ocean of dread. Yet they, too, were but moments away from being another plume of ash from the chimneys of the gas chambers.
Other suicides can relate to medical ineptitude, accidents or genetic disability. Perhaps even a deep immersion in nihilistic philosophies. The word 'murder' becomes increasingly nebulous as an explanation of all suicide. But does it apply in my particular case with Nfather? Absolutely 100%. I could fight to survive all I wanted and it would only make for a slower and more painful demise.
Final Summary
TLDR: I like cats.
It reminds me a bit of what happens to ageing stars when they go through their demise. The mighty yet delicate balancing act of the inward gravity versus outward expansive pressure can no longer be sustained as the heaviest elements complete their fusion process. Suddenly, outward expansion gives way and then... kaboom!
In this analogy, the outward pressure is the force of hope, along with the strategies of band-aid solutions to keep the days passing. Buying stuff until it becomes boring. Chasing thrills until they are meaningless. Working until its hollowness becomes unavoidable. Socialising until the futility of being accepted is undeniable. 'Healing' until it's apparent that no progress was ever being made. Believing in justice until it's clear that there is no such thing.
Regression to Childhood
Sometimes it feels like I'm face-to-face with my childhood self. I'm a naïve Catholic schoolboy again, seemingly somewhat normal and with no idea of what's coming. Life took many twists and turns since then, yet decades worth of evolution suddenly resembles a fragile layer of autumn leaves that will fly off in the mildest of breezes. The body has aged but I have not. What happened to my schoolboy dreams of being exceptional, or even being normal?
Suddenly, everything is about my family again, despite largely cutting them off countless years ago. The role that I was assigned – the whipping boy, the one who didn't matter, the laughing-stock, the undefended outlet for their sadistic tendencies – simply served as a foundation for adult life. Straight to the lowest of social status. The weirdo in the workplace. A battle to overcome, only to fall into silence. A tale of tragedy, never to be heard, as even the vastest ocean of sorrow doesn't matter when the individual in question has no value.
At every age and stage, it seems my role in life was to be a lamb among wolves; to highlight the cruel tendencies of others in a difficult world. Each has their backstory. There's the upper-class person keen to assert their superiority. The man striving to prove his social dominance. The woman needing to vent her fury at the male collective. The successful person seeking a dark backdrop to shine against. The teenager venomously appalled by society. The happy person convinced that despair is merely a choice made by losers. Please get your whips ready and form an orderly queue.
Regrets of Futility
I have hurt people because I was so stubborn with my optimism. I tried to connect socially, but it was just a matter of time before it fell apart. I tried to forge relationships over and over, but the ingredients of my childhood made me nothing but a false hope. Someone who looks human, but the most fundamental ingredients - love, vitality, passion - have forever been foreign. A fraud who is forever trying to be real.
Suddenly, there is a tremendous sadness that I have lived for so long in a world where there was never a valid place for me. I forced something unnatural and now can only look back on countless years of pointless humiliation. I've become the direct opposite of an inspirational person who proves that hard work and optimism pay off in the end. I never wanted this.
Murder By Proxy
There was a philosophical debate in my mind today. There was someone on the forum with a signature quote along the lines of: "Just because it's suicide, doesn't mean it's not murder." Is it the perfect crime?
A lot of people I've interacted with have experienced Dark Triad relationships, be it one or more parents, soulless abusers in the community, ill-selected intimate partners. This is like an organic lifeform interacting with a chainsaw. A cow making its way through a slaughterhouse. There is no reasoning with a machine disguised as a human. What remains is a simple formula of damage being a product of trust invested multiplied by time spent together, minus any positive counterbalancing factors in life.
They say that the children who were placed in the care of Josef Mengele were excited and relieved to meet him. Perhaps he seemed trustworthy, funny or charming; an island of relief within an ocean of dread. Yet they, too, were but moments away from being another plume of ash from the chimneys of the gas chambers.
Other suicides can relate to medical ineptitude, accidents or genetic disability. Perhaps even a deep immersion in nihilistic philosophies. The word 'murder' becomes increasingly nebulous as an explanation of all suicide. But does it apply in my particular case with Nfather? Absolutely 100%. I could fight to survive all I wanted and it would only make for a slower and more painful demise.
Final Summary
TLDR: I like cats.
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