It was not worth living through it
What is this today? I don't know. A sort of madness today. But in the meantime, I guess I can start off by saying I should not be alive today. Not yesterday, today, or tomorrow. I'm not even really sure what to say. I am 25 years old. 25 years more than I should be alive. I should be mourning right now. In the past I have tried many times to kill myself, yet as you can see, I am still alive.
Many times have I tried to do so, sometimes by luck, sometimes by intention. I remember growing up, how there were so many times in which i could have died. Yet for many people they cannot fathom that death and I knew each other for quite a while. Many times in fact. I could have died from multiple car crashes, being hit and ran over by lovely plastic and steel death machines, falling from great heights, and so on. I have also almost drowned in multiple different times and locales, yet sadly i managed to live. Then of course there are some attempts in which i was intentional of the fact that i wanted to die. Some of them by gunshot, some of them by trying to jump off a high place. I always am due for death. Due for death.
I do not say that I know that i need to die, because this is not a matter of epistemology, nor is this me questioning some sort of axiomatic premise that I do not agree with (although I must admit, I do not agree with). No. This is a matter of ontology. It is hard for me to explain, but I shall try to explain. I shall paint a scene, I ask that you follow along. When I was three years old I remember being in a living room, just kind of by myself. There was no horrific thing going on, although many would occur, before and after. There was no grand noise or weird occurrence. It was as dull and boring as dull and boring are. Yes.
I remember looking around in the room, just kind of gauging it. And i made a...self discovery of being if you will. That...I do not belong in this reality. That this is not my home. And that I incompatible with it all. It was as if a 4th dimensional creature was forced to exist in a 3rd dimensional plane of existence. At that point...it was at that point that I knew being alive...was not an option for me.
Never mind the countless evidence that I should not be alive, that this is not my home. Never mind the horrors of filth, eldritch disgusting filth that I cannot, and will never accept. Never mind the traumas that have happened to me. Being molested multiple times. Being beaten multiple times. Being tortured multiple times. Living in horrific conditions, and being forced to see horrors fashioned by the hands of humanity. Waking up in a bathroom, covered in my own feces and blood, urine soaked, fear soaked, wandering why to any of this. Waking up in a hospital, unable to use the bathroom...for reasons. Sodomy. A human male was abused. That human male was me. Human males do not get empathy or sympathy for abuse, especially being molested and raped. They are simply told to endure and tolerant evil.
Yet despite all of this...there could be a reason...or a liberation from reason...to justify why I must live. But that does not apply to me. I am ontologically incompatible with a world that is simply not my home. I feel happy when I think about suicide. About leaving all of this madness behind. How could this ever possibly be my home? You mean to tell me I should accept pain and suffering? That I should accept and tolerate evil? Wars? Famines? Disease? Holocausts? Genocides? Rapes? Molestation? Death? Tortures? Abuses? Homelessness? Poverty?
That...is madness to me. Yet I am told that I am mad. How can it be, that the weaponization of money, the commodification of reality, and deep seated hatred for any peace or love...are accepted? I don't accept it. I don't want it. I can not stand by or abide by it. There is no niche in any of this. Unwashed, unswept, and disdained. A protean world whose morality constantly changes, and whose heart, wicked and evil, melts in hot dystopian plunder. As chaotic as dust in the desert, and barren like fields of war. Scorching hearts of purity, leaving no room for anything good or holy. Profaning it, defiling it. Yet all of that is acceptable. Colonization of the peoples and of the land of the heart, rape and genocide are good, tolerated, so long as the fiction of wealth is attempted to be made manifest as a destiny of human fragility. Disgusting.
I cannot tolerate or accept any of this. None of this makes sense to me. None of it. I cannot live in this world. I cannot accept or tolerate evil of any kind. I refuse to live where this is the norm. That such an apathy is linked to virtue, that hoarding of wealth and the disdain for good are a virtue.
People are afraid when I say that i need to die. Why? I am poor, mentally ill, minority man. How can such a one be threatening to you? Yet you deem it well that I be locked in a hospital, cinder block room, all white, all noise, the panopticon of the camera watching me like a rabid animal...a DOG! A FUCKING DOG! Watched like a creature as if my own existence is an insult, to the very foundations that are steeped in blood and guts of the innocent. A cinder block room, no windows, the lights always on. No time, everyone thrown in there.
Tell me, am I that much a threat, that such a practice is deemed correct to you? Or will you tell me to call a number? A number where armed men can come to your home, rough you up, beat you up, all under the guise of mercy...you prefer that? A group that kills and asks later, why did we kill? Protection of property and fictional wealth. You call that Justice?
...There is no reason for me to be here. But most importantly, even if there was, it would be ineffective. Because I am ontologically incompatible with this world. I should not have been born.
To the Mom's and Dad's of the world. I ask you. Why? Why do you consider no shame, to bring a child into this world? Why? When I was three years old, Mom, you did not allow me to give a homeless man a dollar, because he wanted grab a bite to eat. He was so hungry, sitting, outside, like a dog chained to a tree. Except he was chained to poverty. Why did you not let me give him a dollar? Was he that much of a threat, that if he were to die on the street, its a good thing?
Why did you both, Mom and Dad, bring me into a world you never knew if I would accept or not accept? be compatible or incompatible with? Or did carnality win out in the end? Is my mere existence nothing more than the gratification of a body that will eventually die and rot and be eaten away by the worms you step all over?
Why did you bring me into a world, where the choice is either work and suffer, or don't work and suffer? Where money is needed for food, water, and shelter? Where all kinds of social contracts and evils are tolerated? Where homeless men and women are hated? Where orphans are kicked out at the age of 18 to figure it all out? Where good and edible food is thrown away, like filth, like shit, as if feeding and giving them to anyone is an offense? Where charging money to live in a home is a good thing? Where victim blaming, gas lighting, and the destruction of any empathy is a good thing? Where narcissism is rewarded, and altruism is punished? Where all of these evils are accepted as a good thing, and one must simply tolerate it?
What philosopher or platitude will you use as some sort of cliche joke, as if a snapshot of a snapshot will somehow justify all of these things? Or will you use some neostoic/neoplatonic philosophy, divorced and abused and forced to work like a mule for a purpose that is prolong all of this? Will you use Camus? The same Camus who cheated on his wife so much that his second wife became depressed, suicidal, and had to be put into a mental asylum?
Will you use Nietzsche, who after seeing a horse savagely being beaten, he eventually collapsed from his mental mind?
Will you use toxic positvity? Will you use justfications for pain and suffering? Will you use low anthropology? That humanity is filth and garbage and nobody deserves anything? Will you use shame and guilt? Will you come out as Judas against a supposed robber? Will you proselytize, using hatred as love, and guilt as holiness?
Mom and Dad. I have one simple favor. Two actually. One, do not say that I am intelligent. I am not intelligent. A bird is intelligent. It has a niche. A true niche. It does what it can do with what it does. There is no doubt, no existential threat to what it does, who it is, and why it does what it does. It lives in harmony with nature. It does not rape it. it does not defile it. It does not destroy it. That is intelligence.
Second, do not say that I write well. A monkey can write well. I cannot. And do not dare say that I should be a writer, or some disgraced prophet or whatever. I refuse to make a commodity out of pain and suffering. That warped twisted logic is morally disgusting to me. To fetishize pain and suffering...I can never understand your logic.
Mom and Dad...I forgive you. I can choose to lead myself away from this...darkness. I will be who I will be, but only when I am dead. Perhaps you will think of something. In time. I don't know. At the very least...consider why and what you do. As for me, i leave you with this.
So I am alive, forced alive, against the grit of teeth grinning at the sadism, of filth, of a tentacle disgusting hand, it's claws against the narrowways causing a tempest, and claiming all life that would wish to escape. Yet there is no comfort in company. I hate this flesh! Yet there is an avarice for more flesh in this company. I can't stand the stench, of this rotting corpse, defiling my senses, leaving me dirty and disdained.
So I jump away from this filth of immensity, an end of reductionist absurdism, a stoic acceptance of filth and hatred, and a hedonistic desire to please the tentacle hand. I cannot stand this temporal dew, that will melt and fade away into that which is not dew! How can I be forced to live and endure, what is not profitable, and not my hall of the home? Where is my beloved cheese, or even, where is my beloved dog, whose name is Sisyphus? I can't hear my teeth without my beloved Sisyphus! That this too would end, and the vapor, in the head, would disappear into a dead end. Fly you fools! Fly from nonlasting to everlasting! I will fly now, and escape this tentacle hand, it's fingers in all of the pots, where everything accepts the pots. If I die as I fly away, then I am free away from a false, creaturely, and delusional cycle, of psychotic acceptance, of an unacceptable tolerance, of an unimaginable horror! Oh God! GOD!
Why is the abandonment of the damned, loved ever so lovingly, like a child first taking its first step, towards a copycat copy of a path of its copies of narcissistic monopolistic claims of hegelian catastrophic catastrophe? I don't know! And I ain't, they say you can't say ain't, gonna stay to find out the why and the how to the why! I can't stay, I'm going now. Better to leave a path of freedom with the door open and lights off, then some inviting light to a door where it is locked from the inside. I am trapped, but no more. I will escape and dodge the tentacle hand, and go where home is home and not a prison for fear and love. Then he lived ever after. The end.
I am due to die. No dirge.
What is this today? I don't know. A sort of madness today. But in the meantime, I guess I can start off by saying I should not be alive today. Not yesterday, today, or tomorrow. I'm not even really sure what to say. I am 25 years old. 25 years more than I should be alive. I should be mourning right now. In the past I have tried many times to kill myself, yet as you can see, I am still alive.
Many times have I tried to do so, sometimes by luck, sometimes by intention. I remember growing up, how there were so many times in which i could have died. Yet for many people they cannot fathom that death and I knew each other for quite a while. Many times in fact. I could have died from multiple car crashes, being hit and ran over by lovely plastic and steel death machines, falling from great heights, and so on. I have also almost drowned in multiple different times and locales, yet sadly i managed to live. Then of course there are some attempts in which i was intentional of the fact that i wanted to die. Some of them by gunshot, some of them by trying to jump off a high place. I always am due for death. Due for death.
I do not say that I know that i need to die, because this is not a matter of epistemology, nor is this me questioning some sort of axiomatic premise that I do not agree with (although I must admit, I do not agree with). No. This is a matter of ontology. It is hard for me to explain, but I shall try to explain. I shall paint a scene, I ask that you follow along. When I was three years old I remember being in a living room, just kind of by myself. There was no horrific thing going on, although many would occur, before and after. There was no grand noise or weird occurrence. It was as dull and boring as dull and boring are. Yes.
I remember looking around in the room, just kind of gauging it. And i made a...self discovery of being if you will. That...I do not belong in this reality. That this is not my home. And that I incompatible with it all. It was as if a 4th dimensional creature was forced to exist in a 3rd dimensional plane of existence. At that point...it was at that point that I knew being alive...was not an option for me.
Never mind the countless evidence that I should not be alive, that this is not my home. Never mind the horrors of filth, eldritch disgusting filth that I cannot, and will never accept. Never mind the traumas that have happened to me. Being molested multiple times. Being beaten multiple times. Being tortured multiple times. Living in horrific conditions, and being forced to see horrors fashioned by the hands of humanity. Waking up in a bathroom, covered in my own feces and blood, urine soaked, fear soaked, wandering why to any of this. Waking up in a hospital, unable to use the bathroom...for reasons. Sodomy. A human male was abused. That human male was me. Human males do not get empathy or sympathy for abuse, especially being molested and raped. They are simply told to endure and tolerant evil.
Yet despite all of this...there could be a reason...or a liberation from reason...to justify why I must live. But that does not apply to me. I am ontologically incompatible with a world that is simply not my home. I feel happy when I think about suicide. About leaving all of this madness behind. How could this ever possibly be my home? You mean to tell me I should accept pain and suffering? That I should accept and tolerate evil? Wars? Famines? Disease? Holocausts? Genocides? Rapes? Molestation? Death? Tortures? Abuses? Homelessness? Poverty?
That...is madness to me. Yet I am told that I am mad. How can it be, that the weaponization of money, the commodification of reality, and deep seated hatred for any peace or love...are accepted? I don't accept it. I don't want it. I can not stand by or abide by it. There is no niche in any of this. Unwashed, unswept, and disdained. A protean world whose morality constantly changes, and whose heart, wicked and evil, melts in hot dystopian plunder. As chaotic as dust in the desert, and barren like fields of war. Scorching hearts of purity, leaving no room for anything good or holy. Profaning it, defiling it. Yet all of that is acceptable. Colonization of the peoples and of the land of the heart, rape and genocide are good, tolerated, so long as the fiction of wealth is attempted to be made manifest as a destiny of human fragility. Disgusting.
I cannot tolerate or accept any of this. None of this makes sense to me. None of it. I cannot live in this world. I cannot accept or tolerate evil of any kind. I refuse to live where this is the norm. That such an apathy is linked to virtue, that hoarding of wealth and the disdain for good are a virtue.
People are afraid when I say that i need to die. Why? I am poor, mentally ill, minority man. How can such a one be threatening to you? Yet you deem it well that I be locked in a hospital, cinder block room, all white, all noise, the panopticon of the camera watching me like a rabid animal...a DOG! A FUCKING DOG! Watched like a creature as if my own existence is an insult, to the very foundations that are steeped in blood and guts of the innocent. A cinder block room, no windows, the lights always on. No time, everyone thrown in there.
Tell me, am I that much a threat, that such a practice is deemed correct to you? Or will you tell me to call a number? A number where armed men can come to your home, rough you up, beat you up, all under the guise of mercy...you prefer that? A group that kills and asks later, why did we kill? Protection of property and fictional wealth. You call that Justice?
...There is no reason for me to be here. But most importantly, even if there was, it would be ineffective. Because I am ontologically incompatible with this world. I should not have been born.
To the Mom's and Dad's of the world. I ask you. Why? Why do you consider no shame, to bring a child into this world? Why? When I was three years old, Mom, you did not allow me to give a homeless man a dollar, because he wanted grab a bite to eat. He was so hungry, sitting, outside, like a dog chained to a tree. Except he was chained to poverty. Why did you not let me give him a dollar? Was he that much of a threat, that if he were to die on the street, its a good thing?
Why did you both, Mom and Dad, bring me into a world you never knew if I would accept or not accept? be compatible or incompatible with? Or did carnality win out in the end? Is my mere existence nothing more than the gratification of a body that will eventually die and rot and be eaten away by the worms you step all over?
Why did you bring me into a world, where the choice is either work and suffer, or don't work and suffer? Where money is needed for food, water, and shelter? Where all kinds of social contracts and evils are tolerated? Where homeless men and women are hated? Where orphans are kicked out at the age of 18 to figure it all out? Where good and edible food is thrown away, like filth, like shit, as if feeding and giving them to anyone is an offense? Where charging money to live in a home is a good thing? Where victim blaming, gas lighting, and the destruction of any empathy is a good thing? Where narcissism is rewarded, and altruism is punished? Where all of these evils are accepted as a good thing, and one must simply tolerate it?
What philosopher or platitude will you use as some sort of cliche joke, as if a snapshot of a snapshot will somehow justify all of these things? Or will you use some neostoic/neoplatonic philosophy, divorced and abused and forced to work like a mule for a purpose that is prolong all of this? Will you use Camus? The same Camus who cheated on his wife so much that his second wife became depressed, suicidal, and had to be put into a mental asylum?
Will you use Nietzsche, who after seeing a horse savagely being beaten, he eventually collapsed from his mental mind?
Will you use toxic positvity? Will you use justfications for pain and suffering? Will you use low anthropology? That humanity is filth and garbage and nobody deserves anything? Will you use shame and guilt? Will you come out as Judas against a supposed robber? Will you proselytize, using hatred as love, and guilt as holiness?
Mom and Dad. I have one simple favor. Two actually. One, do not say that I am intelligent. I am not intelligent. A bird is intelligent. It has a niche. A true niche. It does what it can do with what it does. There is no doubt, no existential threat to what it does, who it is, and why it does what it does. It lives in harmony with nature. It does not rape it. it does not defile it. It does not destroy it. That is intelligence.
Second, do not say that I write well. A monkey can write well. I cannot. And do not dare say that I should be a writer, or some disgraced prophet or whatever. I refuse to make a commodity out of pain and suffering. That warped twisted logic is morally disgusting to me. To fetishize pain and suffering...I can never understand your logic.
Mom and Dad...I forgive you. I can choose to lead myself away from this...darkness. I will be who I will be, but only when I am dead. Perhaps you will think of something. In time. I don't know. At the very least...consider why and what you do. As for me, i leave you with this.
So I am alive, forced alive, against the grit of teeth grinning at the sadism, of filth, of a tentacle disgusting hand, it's claws against the narrowways causing a tempest, and claiming all life that would wish to escape. Yet there is no comfort in company. I hate this flesh! Yet there is an avarice for more flesh in this company. I can't stand the stench, of this rotting corpse, defiling my senses, leaving me dirty and disdained.
So I jump away from this filth of immensity, an end of reductionist absurdism, a stoic acceptance of filth and hatred, and a hedonistic desire to please the tentacle hand. I cannot stand this temporal dew, that will melt and fade away into that which is not dew! How can I be forced to live and endure, what is not profitable, and not my hall of the home? Where is my beloved cheese, or even, where is my beloved dog, whose name is Sisyphus? I can't hear my teeth without my beloved Sisyphus! That this too would end, and the vapor, in the head, would disappear into a dead end. Fly you fools! Fly from nonlasting to everlasting! I will fly now, and escape this tentacle hand, it's fingers in all of the pots, where everything accepts the pots. If I die as I fly away, then I am free away from a false, creaturely, and delusional cycle, of psychotic acceptance, of an unacceptable tolerance, of an unimaginable horror! Oh God! GOD!
Why is the abandonment of the damned, loved ever so lovingly, like a child first taking its first step, towards a copycat copy of a path of its copies of narcissistic monopolistic claims of hegelian catastrophic catastrophe? I don't know! And I ain't, they say you can't say ain't, gonna stay to find out the why and the how to the why! I can't stay, I'm going now. Better to leave a path of freedom with the door open and lights off, then some inviting light to a door where it is locked from the inside. I am trapped, but no more. I will escape and dodge the tentacle hand, and go where home is home and not a prison for fear and love. Then he lived ever after. The end.
I am due to die. No dirge.
