A man I used to know
There was a man I used to know. He was tired of his existence. He was too sad to continue and too timid to embrace the end. When he walked under night lights, he imagined himself colliding into a moving vehicle. His limbs auto-piloted him from point to point and his control was a mirage that he knew he shouldn’t have any faith in. In the past 3 years, he’d written 53 suicide notes and saved them in some hidden corner of his shabby Google drive.
He was a nice man. He was the most flawed I had ever seen, too. He was so absorbed in his idealized conception of “self” that he declared “amoral” any person who dared to violate his self interests. He was the embodiment of narcissistic solipsism. But unlike the Herculean ideals of guts, glory and ambition, he was too busy kindling sympathy inside people’s hearts towards his forgotten tales of tragedy. He was literally oxymoronic and openly moronic.
When one blinds oneself to the realities of the Universe and embraces the shallow perception of one’s identity, fate is bound to smirk at this fool. While he self-synonymized his core with a morally uplifted fellow, the atoms surrounding him echoed a polar opposite empirical syndrome. His desire to end existence was very evil and smelt of the deadly sins. He leveraged his suicide rhetoric to guilt trap his near ones into rendering unflinching devotion and mercy towards this wolf, clad as sheep, while simultaneously lacking in the strength of this marvelous canine.
The other aspect of his desire to kill himself is highlighted in escapism and the endless tales of unwarranted puny cowards. He was plainly, weak. While the real world is no different from a Gladiators’ match up, he’s hoped to continue enjoying life’s generosity like the kings of the past, lying bare nude in the garden of Eden with a group of angels to descend down and offer the unending intoxication of ground grapes. Alas, the utopia of Olympus was the arena of Troy and his interpretation of the reality of a truncated dystopia of Dante’s Hell.
While he boasted of his philosophical grasp of life events, it was nothing more than a brittle disorganized “Khichdi” of existentialism, absurdism and nihilism. His obsession and romanticization of void and his continual, if not continuous fling with meaning or it’s lack thereof- only made reality more distorted. While the search for meaning and purpose pumped up his adrenaline, it simultaneously made him morally bankrupt, emotionally fragile, intellectually handicapped and physiologically, a liability. This is the fate of lesser men who aim to walk in the shoes of Nietzsche and Camus.
His affinity towards people made him vulnerable to the highest orders of human error. His perceived superior morality and a sense of radical empathy made him open himself to the world in a vintage introvert’s fashion- slow but certain to strike a chord and accelerate the human-philic emotional bond formation, so much so, that he’d blame the other individual to be a peasant, fraud and hollow. He was the most unique emotional composition of the Old World, with shades of radical empathy, narcissism, misanthropy, entitlement and extreme agony.
One of the reasons for the pain emanated from his belief that entities must be more than the sum of their parts. While a moment was a moment for us, it wasn’t the case for him. For him, a moment was a function of infinite variables and infinite memories, pierced by the needles of infinite multiverse, forming the epicenter of all space time dis-continuum phenomena. If a man extrapolates the logic of our world, by observing it’s ordinariness or absence thereof, to metaphysical abstract towers of non binary deductions, he is bound to be the loneliest man in the universe. Because of this, or if he were to present his case, despite this, he was amazed by the strong gust of nihilistic wind that drove him towards the valley of death.
His mundane deliberations on panpsychism and a quasi-animated multiverse had added an additional layer of sensory perception to his outwardly and inwardly lens. The dichotomy of his psychy was manifested in his uncontrollable hate for the world and his strong sense of nostalgia for everyday object.
So what really happened to him? Did he kill himself? Was he able to end existence? What most people fail to realize is that he never really wanted to end his existence. He just wanted to understand it. The shackles of love, body, friends, family and civility and bombarded him with shame, guilt and fear. Contrary to my cynical commentary, he began to embrace the torrid pain and suffering as the most honest facet of Nature’s beauty. He observed that the purpose of existence was the contained in the absolute Nested Loop that comprised of infinite variables. As he would break open the first loop, he’d find the second loop. On solving the second loop, he’d encounter the third loop and on and on it goes. Quite recursively, the purpose of life was a life of purpose. This let him see “fear” for what it truly was- an entity bordering the thin line between good and evil; between real and imaginary; between life and death.
Now, you’d ask how do I know this much. Well, I am one of the manifestations of the boy’s reality. I am not him. He is not me. We overlap on some days, while on certain days, we’re miles apart and happily disjointed. I am the branch of what would ultimately break the loop. He is the branch that echoes this truth.
