...And I Finally Reach My End

Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye dear friends. If you read this, I hope you were one of those friends, who made life bearable at times. If you read this - a scheduled publication - you will most likely already know that I am dead.

How can existence be so terrifying, so unfair, so pointless, so painful, so tedious, and so atrocious, yet be filled with such miraculous moments of laughter with good friends, when you can almost forget you hate yourself and your life?

Life is full of contradictions, which is very confusing indeed, but when all was said and done, I can safety say my life was composed of far more pain than joy. Day in, day out, my mind filled with thoughts of suicide to end the pain, the desperate longing for it never more than one step away, for my suffering was too great.

But suffering is ever personal, and even through the deepest empathy one can never truly understand what another is going through. What remains is acceptance. My final hope is that the ones I cared about will accept that my choice was borne out of a desperation greater than anything I had ever known - it truly seemed the only way out. I have tried, truly I have, but I could not do it.

No matter what you do, no matter where you run, you can never run from yourself, and my flaws and faults were too great for me to conquer. I cursed the world, I cursed society, yes, but in the end those things only made it harder to deal for me with my greatest enemy: myself. And I did not at all believe that the tears in my psyche could ever be repaired. Even if you do manage to glue something together, you're a fool to believe it is not still broken. What a curse consciousness is . . . And how unasked-for. I never wished to be born, yet I walked this earth for 28 years. It was much too long.

It was never my wish to hurt anyone, and I apologise sincerely for all the pain that I have caused. There is too much of it going around as it is, but everyone will inevitably contribute to it - it seems to come with being human. This appears to be my 'greatest' contribution, but at least my contributions will stop here.

I have no more insights to offer, no more poems, no stories, nothing. I have said enough, and now it is time, through suicide, that I will never say, nor think, nor feel anything ever again. It is what I want. It will free me from the prison that I have been in every single day. I hope you can see why I judged such action necessary.

I love you.

Hak

Illusions

Oh wondrous illusions

How majestic the escapes are

That you produce

Oh anaesthetic illusions

How fine the dreamscapes are

That you contrive

Oh treacherous illusions

How pervasive the promises are

That you provide

Oh dreadful illusions

How horrid the truths are

That you conceal

Oh monstrous illusions

How badly we need you

To stay sane and survive

The Button

As I heard the soft thump I frowned, put down the beer next to a few of its dented and drained kin, wiped the tears off my face and headed to the front door. There was a fat envelope on the mat, which must have only just fit through the letterbox. I immediately opened the door, stepped out and looked around, but saw not a soul. Who would have left this in the middle of the night?

The second glance around yielding the same result made me go back indoors resignedly. I picked up the envelope, which was surprisingly light, and walked back to the sofa. I turned it around. There was no name nor address on it, nothing at all. I opened it and felt inside. My fingers touched something hard and squarish. I pulled it out. In my hand was a tiny black plastic box with a note taped on it. I pulled off the note. Beneath it was a red button set squarely in the middle of the box, and I gasped. This could not be. I had dreamt about this box, both awake and asleep, more times that I could count. Could it be actually real? Was I holding what I thought I was? It could not be, yet . . .

Trigger-free Misery

I curl up in the corner

Clutching my beer like a lifeline reversed

Huddling under the blanket

That shields me from the world

In here no one can get me

I imagine

Right here I don't have to do anything

I tell myself

Hidden thus I can wait to die

I pretend

I know it is just another stupid escape

From the horrible reality that plagues me

I can't handle this shit, I know

Even the damned normal stuff

But the worst part is

I don't even know the trigger

It just happened, like something just died inside

And now I'm stuck

And getting back up seems as difficult

As parting a sea or moving a mountain -

If I were an idiot I'd pray to Jesus to save me

Psychotic Hatred

“I don’t have pet peeves, I have major psychotic fucking hatreds.”

-- George Carlin

Birthdays

Birthdays are such a farce. So you survived for another year. Hooray. But this is not why people celebrate them, is it? They do not celebrate simple survival. Do they even know why they celebrate it, I wonder? I'm inclined to say no. To most, it is not much more than an excuse for a party. And everybody does it, anyway, so they probably should too. And what could be the harm?

Perhaps some think that maybe it could just be nice to make someone feel special for a day. But you’re not special. You never were, and you’re not when it’s your birthday. You’re still just an insignificant speck of dust in the universe, and, in the end, none of your actions matter.

Sad Unto Death

“There is in me the bitter taste of death, and nothingness is burning within me like a strong poison. How could I still speak of beauty, and make aesthetic remarks, when I am so sad, sad unto death?”

--Emil Cioran

Oh Boy, Presents!

The only thing I got for Christmas is pneumonia. Maybe next year I'll get cancer.

Well, one can hope.

The Turn of the Year

The turn of the year . . . what a joke. But a bad one. A depressing one. Suddenly, millions and millions of people feel the need to use explosives to celebrate the calendar changing one digit, and at midnight they go crazy with joy. I mean, they hardly ever smile so broadly as they do then, and they all hug and kiss, and some actually even jump with joy. What the hell are they so happy about? I look at them and feel half a fool for not understanding in the least.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” they will say two hundred times over the course of a few days, and I hadn’t even recovered from the nauseating “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” bombardment just last week. I only want to hide from their happy new years until finally they stop spamming that stupid sentence, but their happy new years slip through the cracks, just like their merry christmases did, and they bother me with that nonsense via mail and e-mail, and at the end of every damn conversation I am unlucky enough to hold just before the end of the year.

Survival of the Fittest

Before computers, before wireless communication, before multinational companies, before airplanes, before banks, before industry, before cross-Atlantic travel, and before a million other things that have been classified as 'progress', people used to understand that the sickly, the weak and the mentally disturbed were not meant to survive, and used to be not the least bit surprised when these people died young: simple survival of the fittest—even before Darwin coined the phrase, the lowliest peasant understood that most weak people were not supposed to die of old age.

Now, for some reason, in our disgustingly rich society, everyone needs to be 'saved'. If there is something seriously wrong with you, the government will take the money of those who are, in fact, of sound enough physical and mental health to make it in this world, and use it to fund a legion of health care workers trained to try (and often fail) to make you a contributing member of society (again).

LET THEM DIE. Their lives are not some holy thing—the earth is overpopulated as it is, and the weak will breed more weaklings, growing up to often lead unhappy and tormented lives.

You Just Have To . . .

If someone starts a sentence like this, I don't even want to listen to the rest, no matter how well-meant their intentions are. It betrays such ignorance of another's issues and such a lack of empathy . . . Besides, assuming the other has never even thought of your 'solution' is plainly insulting. What's easy for you, may seem like the tallest of mountains to another.

Lucid Dreams

Many days, lucid dreams are the only thing making my day somewhat tolerable. During such dreams, I can actually still experience happiness, if there is such a thing. At least I feel content, and any problems that arise I am actually able to overcome, because I am generally skilled or powerful in some way, bestowing upon me a sense of pride in my abilities, a welcome change from the daily self-hatred of real life. But, while they provide an amazing experience, they cause the day to start with by far the best part, so it can only get worse after I wake up fully.

In lucid dreams there are infinite possibilities. Often there is some action element, and fighting, but I can also fall in love and experience the girl as if she were real, even though she doesn't have a face. (At least none that I can later remember.) When I wake up I can remember all the feelings I have felt with such intensity that leaves no doubt that they were all real, even though I know every bit of it happened inside my head.

Blank Slate

I wish I could format my brain, erase everything I've ever learned, and lock myself in a windowless room so that I would never know anything but darkness, and fully embrace it as my only friend and my only truth, remaining blissfully unaware of all the horrors of the world.

Oh, how attractive the return to a state of innocence is. And how tragic that each child must learn that their beautiful innocence will get them killed or worse.

What kind of world have we created that the most precious, joy-inspiring thing on earth will be each person's downfall if not treated as if it were a disease . . .

Fear and Hate

I fear fear and I hate hate, but I hate fear more than I fear hate. I own my hate and my fear owns me. I fear love and dare not hope for it, but do not hate it; it is the fear of love that I hate. I fear and hate hope, but do dare hope I will someday soon stop feeling hate and fear through death. I love little but I would love the end of fear and hate and hope and love and life.

I fear any possibly rekindled hope and any other regeneration, because it will make the inevitable fall all the harder. This fear of hope renders moot any and all efforts made by me and others to get me 'better' again. I am already lost. Only the fear of the pain and fear of dying is preventing my death. I fear this is the only fear preventing the loss of all other fears, and I have never hated anything as much.

Prisoner

Not only am I a captive of society;

I am a prisoner of my own body

This is what I have been given

Including the mind, this most hated mind

I seem free, unchained

But even in apparent freedom

I reside in a torture chamber

Me both the tortured and the torturer

My mind: my enemy

Betraying me at every turn

Making me unable to handle anything

Some disappointment, some pressure

You name it, and it will shut me down

Madness

“The truly awful thing in madness is that we sense a total and irrevocable loss of life while we are still living.”

-- Emil Cioran

A Long Agony on the Road to Death

“Whoever has not experienced the awful agony of death, rising and spreading like a surge of blood, like the choking grasp of a snake which provokes terrifying hallucinations, does not know the demonic character of life and the state of inner effervescence from which great transfigurations arise. Such a state of black drunkenness is a necessary prerequisite to understanding why one wishes the immediate end of this world. It’s not the luminous drunkenness of ecstasy, in which paradisal visions conquer you with their splendour and you rise to a purity that sublimates into immateriality, but a mad, dangerous, ruinous, and tormented black drunkenness, in which death appears with the awful seduction and nightmarish snake eyes. To experience such sensations and images means to be so close to the essence of reality that both life and death shed their illusions and attain within you their most dramatic form. An exalted agony combines life and death in a horrible maelstrom: a beastly satanism borrows tears from voluptuousness. Life as a long agony on the road to death is nothing but another manifestation of life’s demoniacal dialectics, in which forms are given birth only to be destroyed.”

-- Emil Cioran

Silence

I keep thinking words are so inadequate that I should never write nor utter one word again. Yet even in their inadequacy they prevent me from thinking even more when expressed on paper – it prevents the words from being stuck inside my head like a swarm of locusts, so I write them down anyway . . . Better would be never to have thoughts ever again. That thought is the only alluring one.

Absolute Listlessness

I feel like I’m ninety years old. Every little thing seems to cost way too much energy: folding a towel, walking a few paces, making some tea . . . Even moving my fingers across the keyboard to form words, and keeping my eyes focused. Writing a few paragraphs without slumping down to the ground is the most active I've been all day. Yay, me . . .

Why do I seem to age dozens of years overnight sometimes? I’m not like this all the time. But when I am, the only thing I want to do is close my tired eyes, collapse and sleep forever, so that I never feel this way again. So listless, so feeble, so drained . . . Half a corpse, stumbling on stupidly, aimlessly. I can think of nothing at all to do that would bring me joy; nothing at all seems appealing. Nothing. It’s like all the world is suddenly coloured a dull grey, making anything and everything uninteresting, and it seems my limbs have turned to lead, dragging me further down with every weak step I take.

Giving Up

Most working days now the thought that crosses my mind every couple of seconds, on average, is Just give up. The work is terrible, undoable. I cannot imagine ever finishing it. A monkey could perhaps work faster than I can now, the monkey probably being in a healthier mental state than I am. Screw intelligence, screw training, screw humanity; if you're crazy, a monkey is probably better than you.

As I try to get my work done, and fail, I feel inferior to monkeys, to birds, to hippos, to otters, to every goddamn creature known to man. I wish I were an otter. A simple life. I'd like to build dams all around, until they are so high no one will ever find me. But I'm a lousy human, with millions of thoughts and emotions vying for attention, and I fail at my work, at everything, and I just sit down against the radiator  in cursed winter, and write some bullshit no one reads, thinking: if only this warmth against my back could be with me forever, it might give me the strength to make it.