Venting The negative is the real essence of life

[Christopher Reeve]

In my reflections I think that suicide is a way of correcting the biggest mistake, that of being born. Birth is the origin of all the pain in the world, suicide is a way of returning to non-existence, I don't think that the period that not existing was bad, it was something neutral, just the fact of being incapable of suffering makes it positive.
Life is about suffering to satisfy needs like eating, drinking, sleeping, we spend more time trying to satisfy this than satiated, not to mention that there are things that no man can control, like catastrophes.
I don't know if you've read "the selfish gene by richard dawkins" but I highly recommend it, our bodies and wills only follow the desire to replicate themselves at all costs, there is a biological determinism in each person, such as tendencies to be hyperactive, optimistic and etc. the genes don't care if the individual suffers, they just want to pass it on, the different types of genes in the individual can conflict, it's no wonder he's "selfish".
Life, even for those who have everything, who are millionaires, will at some point turn gray, the simple fact of existing will bring them to "taedium vitae" the boredom of existing. Even if they throw themselves into hedonism, at some point these pleasures will disappear. have become destructive, as it will increasingly become less intense, I'm talking here about any type of pleasure, be it sexual, drugs, etc. Eventually, dopamine runs out. I notice that most people are able to realize that existence in itself is negative. some form, that's why they use alcohol, smoke, gamble, practice even risky sports, all a form of escapism, and also of accelerating their own end as if it were an unconscious form of suicide. Hours pass quickly, but in a way this is almost an involuntary suicide (the more hours pass, the less people live).

 

[Darkover]

with a world as shit as this the best thing that anyone can be if you never have to exist at all

 

[sserafim]

Life is suffering. Desire is the root of suffering. If you're alive, you will always have wants and desires, and therefore will inevitably suffer. The default mode of life and existence is one of lack; you always need to fulfill and satisfy your needs

with a world as shit as this the best thing that anyone can be if you never have to exist at all

Literally. Unfortunately we were all brought into existence against our will

 

[Christopher Reeve]

Life is suffering. Desire is the root of suffering. If you're alive, you will always have wants and desires, and therefore will inevitably suffer. The default mode of life and existence is one of lack, you always need to fulfill and satisfy your needs

Literally. Unfortunately we were all brought into existence against our will

Most people ignore the negative for reasons that Peter Zapfer described:
Isolation is "a completely arbitrary rejection of consciousness from all disturbing and destructive thoughts and feelings."
a mental mechanism to protect us from insanity, I think people like us don't have this mechanism active, or partially.

 

[FuneralCry]

I also see suicide as correcting a mistake, in my case suicide is the rational solution to escape from the futile, yet so hellish imposition that is human existence. Consciousness is a curse to me, I see existence as a tragic, meaningless temporary disturbance in what was otherwise the most perfect state of non-existence and I believe death to simply be the return to that state. Only non-existence is desirable to me especially as there are no disadvantages to the eternal absence of existence yet there is no limit as to how much one can suffer as long as they are burdened with the ability to exist. Existence truly is so unnecessary and useless to me, I really do believe it would have been better if life never existed in the first place.

 

[marchshift]

In my reflections I think that suicide is a way of correcting the biggest mistake, that of being born. Birth is the origin of all the pain in the world, suicide is a way of returning to non-existence, I don't think that the period that not existing was bad, it was something neutral, just the fact of being incapable of suffering makes it positive.
Life is about suffering to satisfy needs like eating, drinking, sleeping, we spend more time trying to satisfy this than satiated, not to mention that there are things that no man can control, like catastrophes.
I don't know if you've read "the selfish gene by richard dawkins" but I highly recommend it, our bodies and wills only follow the desire to replicate themselves at all costs, there is a biological determinism in each person, such as tendencies to be hyperactive, optimistic and etc. the genes don't care if the individual suffers, they just want to pass it on, the different types of genes in the individual can conflict, it's no wonder he's "selfish".
Life, even for those who have everything, who are millionaires, will at some point turn gray, the simple fact of existing will bring them to "taedium vitae" the boredom of existing. Even if they throw themselves into hedonism, at some point these pleasures will disappear. have become destructive, as it will increasingly become less intense, I'm talking here about any type of pleasure, be it sexual, drugs, etc. Eventually, dopamine runs out. I notice that most people are able to realize that existence in itself is negative. some form, that's why they use alcohol, smoke, gamble, practice even risky sports, all a form of escapism, and also of accelerating their own end as if it were an unconscious form of suicide. Hours pass quickly, but in a way this is almost an involuntary suicide (the more hours pass, the less people live).

You are wanting trying to inspire others to kill themselves.

with a world as shit as this the best thing that anyone can be if you never have to exist at all

You are cheering and betting on how many people will kill themselves here. You are killing people.

 

[Christopher Reeve]

You are wanting trying to inspire others to kill themselves.

You are cheering and betting on how many people will kill themselves here. You are killing people.

definitely not, did you happen to feel like it after reading it?
This text is a kind of me justifying my own suicide and not someone else's

 

[marchshift]

Yes. Your writing made me feel this way.

 

[Christopher Reeve]

Yes. Your writing made me feel this way.

So I think you're in the wrong place, people here expose their opinions, experiences and feelings, if that doesn't bring you relief then you shouldn't be here, for your own good

 

[marchshift]

I didn't join this site for relief. I observe and let intuition guide reactions.

 

[AnyWonderBR]

It is the day of mourning, a torrential downpour from a sky of welter and waste, as I begin to shovel away my section of the trenches. The smell of death, nauseating, the foul stench of decay from dead men and creatures of the earth, so revolting that not even the vultures of the air dare to feast on them. Why should they…will they? It matters not now, for I am stuck shoveling away, expanding the trenches, all the while taking care not to mourn and devour myself with my sorrow. Tears never fall here, not from me. I sing a dirge, for others, then hopefully for myself soon. Artillery fire burst mid-air, leaving my head rattled and ringing. I was alive. I am alive.

The boy right next to me, no more than 15 years of age, was sadly still alive. He told me after the war that he wanted to go home and try his luck again in making amends with his family. Too late now, his body was left mangled from the shrapnel and the explosions. His eye hung out of his socket, on his chest, the muscle behind the socket trying to engage in movement. His chest cavity was burst open, leaving one of his lungs, still expanding and decompressing, out onto his chest. What was horrifying was not the gore, it was not the open wound, it was not the leg shredded unto bone. It was his howling cries of pain and sadness, as he began to cry out for mother and father.

It doesn't matter. I can't do anything. His cries turned to coughs mixed with blood, to a slight whimper, then the light of his eyes, even this was not with him no more.

Horror…how can a human being be reduced to horror? The generals deem it sane for the young to murder one another, with metal and fire and toxic gas. Brains splattering over the ground, the cries of men being burned alive, and the sound of choking and gasping for air, followed by silence. This is sane. This is clean. This is holy. This is not profane. This is acceptable. This is Good. This is sacrifice. This is war. True savagery can never be fully experienced until one becomes full of love and morality, and then sets it aside for one moment. Not fling it away, not bury it, not even to lock it. To be a savage is to be in full control of one's morality, and yet, to engage in immortality, to murder, to steal, to rape, to lie, and to destroy. All without judgment, or without remorse. How can one have remorse, if there was nothing right or wrong to commit, only action, only instinct, only humanity?

But to write the word "fuck" on a tank, or to tell crude jokes, or to walk around unclean, or to have tiny lint on a tiny button, on a tiny uniform, was never permitted, for all of these were deemed…offensive. One such a general strangled a young private nearly to death, for not saluting him properly. This is good. This is war.

My body came back home. I had nothing much here to begin with. A home, a gift from my parents, away from the city. The isolation suits me. The ones in the city were not so lucky. They were considered unclean, lepers, creatures of the dark that had no place or time in a world they used to inhabit. In sacrificing who they are, they lose what made them who they are. A home, family, community, country, region. Gone once you have tasted blood and steel.

I see my fellow victims of war. Prostituted to a life they never wanted, then punished for a life they never wanted. My friend, Miller…I loved him. He was homeless, no job or place wanted him. I tried to let him stay at my home, but he was too ashamed to ask for help. Shame…poison. Eroding any opportunities and killing any seed that can bud into a flower.

Miller died, and I found him under a bridge. I knew he had pneumonia. He died from it. We had a cure. No hospital wanted him. No money, no help. The churches did not want him. No God, no help. I found him, dead, all alone. A man who sacrificed everything…for nothing.

His death has left me seeing red. That is all I see now. A raw-visceral torment filled with anger. So I carved out the skin beneath my eyes, blood pouring, tears of blood, I see now. I begin to wipe it in my face, looking into the mirror. And there I see…horror. The horror that justifies this madness. The horror that denied a hand of help. The horror that defeats us with judgment. The horror that consumes. The horror that reflects the midnight blue of the sky, stars dancing and twinkling, uncaring of fate…my fate.

All I ever wanted since coming back home was the same as everyone else. Why am I still here? Why should I be here? Why me…why anybody? I loved Miller, but he died alone.

No family cared for him, except for one. I forgot her name…and I wish I knew. She was born before Miller. Locked in a basement for years, deprived of the light of day. No words, only darkness. She was found alone, her parents having both died at the same time, leaving behind corpses that began to rot. It was too late for her now. She could no longer talk, could not reason. To become an adult, one must become a child. To become strong, one must be weak. But to be weak implies being cared for. But she wasn't. What is she now? Strong? Weak? It doesn't matter. Miller's family adopted her, no one else would. Miller loved her, and there was a twinkle in her eyes when she saw him.

Miller is dead now, and the light of her eyes has vanished. His family refuses to take him back in. He is too caught up in fake memories of the war, acts hysterical, and loses his cool when seeing and smelling the war. No use for him here. He is of no use, no hope, and no production. He cannot give, only take, ergo, worthless.

So now I see my face, and I realize now. This is the same horror I have experienced. It is in me. It is in my heart, down the middle, splitting it, causing apathy and entropy. But then I realize that this horror is in all. I refuse to live with such horror. This monster inside me. Can I escape it…wait. Should I escape it? Is this horror the real me? Have I been suppressing this fear? But wait…the others, are they not suppressing it? Is that how they justify the homeless, the poor, the orphans, the widows? Is that how it was justified for Miller's sister, to be locked in a dark bathroom, her mouth covered in feces as she cries for hours on end? Is this how horror is made manifest, not by inaction of horror, but by committing horror?

So I curse the day I was born, and even now as I look into the mirror, I would love nothing more than to smother my own mouth with gunpowder and blood. Ripping out my own organs that gives me life, so that i may repurpose them, and that they may give me death. As I utter my last cries of madness, my being fighting for being, pouring down my throat the same blood that keeps me alive, I hope nothing more than to leave myself engorged with madness and insanity, unable to vomit my own garbage, till my very being explodes, leaving behind an explosion of my own inner beings, leaving this world the same way my brethren left as well. Nothing left, not even for the rats that infest my home, or for the dogs of perdition to lap up my desolation.

I am at the grave of Miller now. I loved him. I want to be with him…I can be with him. He is there, and I am here. In a few more moments, he will be there, and I can be there. I leave my chance to my coin. Unbiased, unprejudiced, giving the same judgment and measure to all and unto all. I shall flip it now. It has landed, my hand covering it. Heads, I will not be a monster. Tails, I will be a monster. Time to uncover my hand, and see what chance has led me to.

I wrote this, because this life is exactly that. Hypocrisy made manifest. A world that loves pain, worships it, glorifies it, makes commodities out pain and suffering, and selling it. And yet...I am the crazy one, because I refuse to accept any of this? Such evil, and to think I once considered myself a part of this world. If me dying is what is necessary to not be a part of this world, so be it.

 

[Christopher Reeve]

It is the day of mourning, a torrential downpour from a sky of welter and waste, as I begin to shovel away my section of the trenches. The smell of death, nauseating, the foul stench of decay from dead men and creatures of the earth, so revolting that not even the vultures of the air dare to feast on them. Why should they…will they? It matters not now, for I am stuck shoveling away, expanding the trenches, all the while taking care not to mourn and devour myself with my sorrow. Tears never fall here, not from me. I sing a dirge, for others, then hopefully for myself soon. Artillery fire burst mid-air, leaving my head rattled and ringing. I was alive. I am alive.

The boy right next to me, no more than 15 years of age, was sadly still alive. He told me after the war that he wanted to go home and try his luck again in making amends with his family. Too late now, his body was left mangled from the shrapnel and the explosions. His eye hung out of his socket, on his chest, the muscle behind the socket trying to engage in movement. His chest cavity was burst open, leaving one of his lungs, still expanding and decompressing, out onto his chest. What was horrifying was not the gore, it was not the open wound, it was not the leg shredded unto bone. It was his howling cries of pain and sadness, as he began to cry out for mother and father.

It doesn't matter. I can't do anything. His cries turned to coughs mixed with blood, to a slight whimper, then the light of his eyes, even this was not with him no more.

Horror…how can a human being be reduced to horror? The generals deem it sane for the young to murder one another, with metal and fire and toxic gas. Brains splattering over the ground, the cries of men being burned alive, and the sound of choking and gasping for air, followed by silence. This is sane. This is clean. This is holy. This is not profane. This is acceptable. This is Good. This is sacrifice. This is war. True savagery can never be fully experienced until one becomes full of love and morality, and then sets it aside for one moment. Not fling it away, not bury it, not even to lock it. To be a savage is to be in full control of one's morality, and yet, to engage in immortality, to murder, to steal, to rape, to lie, and to destroy. All without judgment, or without remorse. How can one have remorse, if there was nothing right or wrong to commit, only action, only instinct, only humanity?

But to write the word "fuck" on a tank, or to tell crude jokes, or to walk around unclean, or to have tiny lint on a tiny button, on a tiny uniform, was never permitted, for all of these were deemed…offensive. One such a general strangled a young private nearly to death, for not saluting him properly. This is good. This is war.

My body came back home. I had nothing much here to begin with. A home, a gift from my parents, away from the city. The isolation suits me. The ones in the city were not so lucky. They were considered unclean, lepers, creatures of the dark that had no place or time in a world they used to inhabit. In sacrificing who they are, they lose what made them who they are. A home, family, community, country, region. Gone once you have tasted blood and steel.

I see my fellow victims of war. Prostituted to a life they never wanted, then punished for a life they never wanted. My friend, Miller…I loved him. He was homeless, no job or place wanted him. I tried to let him stay at my home, but he was too ashamed to ask for help. Shame…poison. Eroding any opportunities and killing any seed that can bud into a flower.

Miller died, and I found him under a bridge. I knew he had pneumonia. He died from it. We had a cure. No hospital wanted him. No money, no help. The churches did not want him. No God, no help. I found him, dead, all alone. A man who sacrificed everything…for nothing.

His death has left me seeing red. That is all I see now. A raw-visceral torment filled with anger. So I carved out the skin beneath my eyes, blood pouring, tears of blood, I see now. I begin to wipe it in my face, looking into the mirror. And there I see…horror. The horror that justifies this madness. The horror that denied a hand of help. The horror that defeats us with judgment. The horror that consumes. The horror that reflects the midnight blue of the sky, stars dancing and twinkling, uncaring of fate…my fate.

All I ever wanted since coming back home was the same as everyone else. Why am I still here? Why should I be here? Why me…why anybody? I loved Miller, but he died alone.

No family cared for him, except for one. I forgot her name…and I wish I knew. She was born before Miller. Locked in a basement for years, deprived of the light of day. No words, only darkness. She was found alone, her parents having both died at the same time, leaving behind corpses that began to rot. It was too late for her now. She could no longer talk, could not reason. To become an adult, one must become a child. To become strong, one must be weak. But to be weak implies being cared for. But she wasn't. What is she now? Strong? Weak? It doesn't matter. Miller's family adopted her, no one else would. Miller loved her, and there was a twinkle in her eyes when she saw him.

Miller is dead now, and the light of her eyes has vanished. His family refuses to take him back in. He is too caught up in fake memories of the war, acts hysterical, and loses his cool when seeing and smelling the war. No use for him here. He is of no use, no hope, and no production. He cannot give, only take, ergo, worthless.

So now I see my face, and I realize now. This is the same horror I have experienced. It is in me. It is in my heart, down the middle, splitting it, causing apathy and entropy. But then I realize that this horror is in all. I refuse to live with such horror. This monster inside me. Can I escape it…wait. Should I escape it? Is this horror the real me? Have I been suppressing this fear? But wait…the others, are they not suppressing it? Is that how they justify the homeless, the poor, the orphans, the widows? Is that how it was justified for Miller's sister, to be locked in a dark bathroom, her mouth covered in feces as she cries for hours on end? Is this how horror is made manifest, not by inaction of horror, but by committing horror?

So I curse the day I was born, and even now as I look into the mirror, I would love nothing more than to smother my own mouth with gunpowder and blood. Ripping out my own organs that gives me life, so that i may repurpose them, and that they may give me death. As I utter my last cries of madness, my being fighting for being, pouring down my throat the same blood that keeps me alive, I hope nothing more than to leave myself engorged with madness and insanity, unable to vomit my own garbage, till my very being explodes, leaving behind an explosion of my own inner beings, leaving this world the same way my brethren left as well. Nothing left, not even for the rats that infest my home, or for the dogs of perdition to lap up my desolation.

I am at the grave of Miller now. I loved him. I want to be with him…I can be with him. He is there, and I am here. In a few more moments, he will be there, and I can be there. I leave my chance to my coin. Unbiased, unprejudiced, giving the same judgment and measure to all and unto all. I shall flip it now. It has landed, my hand covering it. Heads, I will not be a monster. Tails, I will be a monster. Time to uncover my hand, and see what chance has led me to.

I wrote this, because this life is exactly that. Hypocrisy made manifest. A world that loves pain, worships it, glorifies it, makes commodities out pain and suffering, and selling it. And yet...I am the crazy one, because I refuse to accept any of this? Such evil, and to think I once considered myself a part of this world. If me dying is what is necessary to not be a part of this world, so be it.

I can understand the metaphors in your story, particularly I have seen many cases of people who sacrificed themselves only for it to be in vain, as in cases of war veterans who are discarded, used as cannon fodder. In my life, I knew how my grandmother dedicated herself to taking care of her children, only to end up leaving her without caring.
About the apathy you talk about, yes, I know what it's like to live with indifference towards the world, it seems like I live in third person.

 

[Forever Sleep]

I find it interesting that humans can overcome their natural instincts though. Antinatilists decide not to reproduce. People committed to marriage don't put it about. We'll deliberately go on diets and restrict food- even though we want it. We even have the ability to overcome survival instinct and kill ourselves. So- we're not entirely slaves to our genes or natural drives. Assuming evolution works to benefit us, I find it fascinating because, those things don't comply to natural laws.

 

[Christopher Reeve]

I find it interesting that humans can overcome their natural instincts though. Antinatilists decide not to reproduce. People committed to marriage don't put it about. We'll deliberately go on diets and restrict food- even though we want it. We even have the ability to overcome survival instinct and kill ourselves. So- we're not entirely slaves to our genes or natural drives. Assuming evolution works to benefit us, I find it fascinating because, those things don't comply to natural laws.

I even understand what you mean.
I think that consciousness is the phenomenon that surpassed nature itself, described Peter Wessel Zapffe in his book The Last Messiah:

"Whatever happened? A breach in the very unity of life, a biological paradox, an abomination, an absurdity, an exaggeration of disastrous nature. Life had overshot its target, blowing itself apart. A species had been armed too heavily – by spirit made almighty without, but equally a menace to its own well-being."

I think that consciousness is a mechanism for our survival that ended up getting lost in its objective, it's like those beetles that naturally travel following the moon, but due to their mistaken instinct they end up mistaken for a fire or lamp and end up killing themselves.
But this does not mean that there is no rational suicide, the philosopher Mainlander, Schopenauer's disciple, wrote a book about it and was faithful to his own philosophy.
But what I notice is that most cases are arbitrary and momentary.
I do not advocate anyone's suicide, knowledge has no moral burden, we are the ones who give it that value

 

[sserafim]

I find it interesting that humans can overcome their natural instincts though. Antinatilists decide not to reproduce. People committed to marriage don't put it about. We'll deliberately go on diets and restrict food- even though we want it. We even have the ability to overcome survival instinct and kill ourselves. So- we're not entirely slaves to our genes or natural drives. Assuming evolution works to benefit us, I find it fascinating because, those things don't comply to natural laws.

I think that's because humans possess consciousness and intelligence. We "know better" and have the capacity for logical thought and reasoning, while animals are driven solely by instinct. I doubt they think about what they do; they just live on autopilot. However, humans can override and defy their instincts through their willpower and determination

 

[Forever Sleep]

I even understand what you mean.
I think that consciousness is the phenomenon that surpassed nature itself, described Peter Wessel Zapffe in his book The Last Messiah:


I think that consciousness is a mechanism for our survival that ended up getting lost in its objective, it's like those beetles that naturally travel following the moon, but due to their mistaken instinct they end up mistaken for a fire or lamp and end up killing themselves.
But this does not mean that there is no rational suicide, the philosopher Mainlander, Schopenauer's disciple, wrote a book about it and was faithful to his own philosophy.
But what I notice is that most cases are arbitrary and momentary.
I do not advocate anyone's suicide, knowledge has no moral burden, we are the ones who give it that value

Yes, I agree with this. I can see how self awareness could have benefitted us as a species but that it may have developed a few unusual side effects. After all, not all evolutionary traits end up being totally beneficial. They just happened to win through and stick and there are just so many of us now. Ironically, I wonder if we are making mental illness prevalent. There does seem to be a lot of it around or- is it that we simply have names for it now? I don't know.

 

[Christopher Reeve]

Yes, I agree with this. I can see how self awareness could have benefitted us as a species but that it may have developed a few unusual side effects. After all, not all evolutionary traits end up being totally beneficial. They just happened to win through and stick and there are just so many of us now. Ironically, I wonder if we are making mental illness prevalent. There does seem to be a lot of it around or- is it that we simply have names for it now? I don't know.

There are historical quotes that suggest that ancient people had a slight notion that something was wrong, Aretaeus of Cappadocia has the first writings on bipolarity, they even believe that this is why the Greeks used lithium salt in their baths, which if not Know that it is the most common remedy for bipolarity. But advances in the field of the mind came after the 2 world wars, which in a way shows that a lot of misfortune needs to happen for any progress to emerge (I have a personal theory about this)