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Life isn’t what it was supposed to be.

It is not at all as you have imagined. Career goals have fallen short, that business idea was more quixotic than expected, and now you earn your wages working various menial jobs, just to get by. Though you know your ideal contributions to society are predicated on an artificial prerogative, the allure of “success” has nevertheless managed to poison you.

Your emotional world is in turmoil too. The inner weather erodes what little empathy you had beneath the pressure of a scourge of self-hatred that began to percolate long ago. All portents now imply that the coming storm will spare no vestige of enthusiasm for existence.

‘Suicide?’ Sure, who hasn’t thought of it before? A sardonic relativism comforts you and encourages the knife.

You affirm that no reasonable justification for self-immolation is ever necessary. You know this state of mind better than psychologists. Still, the naive make all attempts to coddle you, as if that’s what you wanted. “But god loves you!”, they say. You don’t know god. “Your life has value!” Your values are not mine. “Don’t be selfish!” You haven’t defined¬† ‘self’.

One psychologist asks, “What do you want?” Your reply: To be alone. “No one wants to live alone.” Oh yeah? What would you know about that?

The thread is thin, the knife is sharp, the go-between is unstable.

You have never experienced life through the eyes of another. You have always been enshrouded by your own sentience and subjectivity. The strange thing is, despite this fixed condition of consciousness, people still manage to relate with one another. Unfortunately, the accuracy of relation and precision of communicating thoughts and feelings is delimited by the experiences of the recipient. In other words, if you haven’t felt pain, how can anyone sufficiently explain it to you? If you have never experienced suicidal tendencies, then you cannot understand the suicidal.

Describe the color blue. Describe a sunrise. Describe the heat of the flames that lick your feet.

Chaotic soliloquies of the dark reapers harvest continue to abound. ‘F**k this life!’¬† You hit yourself with steel, the pain fills the void. ‘Why am I this way!’ You curse god, god peddles silence. It is an intrigue indeed, that a being can so despise its own nature.

“How did I get here?”, you wonder. Childhood memories of riding bikes and climbing trees echo in your head. Friends and family are as ghosts with no haunt but the space within. “God, we are so disconnected now…”, you lament as that damned smart-phone next to you purveys a miserable irony. It was taken up to be connected, to ‘stay in touch’, but now, seldom a single phone call issues through its warm electric shell. Tears well up. A relentless emptiness subdues them before they can streamline down a stone face.

You remember the time you first witnessed death. Your great grandfather, the one that doled out hugs to the kids and went out of his way to provoke a smile; the one who survived two wars, met his end despite all his strength. He gasped for his last breath…and the cold took him away.

You recall the anguish felt when you realized your grandmother would die. Your mother would die. Your father, siblings, friends…all of them will fade into nothingness. This thought was seminal to your development.

The void within is a reflection of the emptiness the world purveys. That death is inevitable is cause enough for suffering, but to see the world enveloped in violence, hatred, and absurd hedonism compounds the injury to the point that you become numb. You feel nothing because the world doesn’t seem to feel. You begin to hate because the world goes on hating. Is this a projection? Perhaps.

The storm will pass, the shadows cast by the clouds will recede, and you will visit the depths again in time…