Posts from MyDepressionList

I was watching something just now, thought about this, and experienced an incredible feeling of apathy. No anger or sadness, just a cold realization of the futility of any effort. I suddenly felt a desire to "liberate" myself, but as before, I was stopped by the thought that I could exercise this absolute right of mine on any other day, and for now, there is no rush.

Born in a dungeon with a burden upon our shoulders and our minds, we would not be able to last even a single day if the possibility of ending it did not urge us to start all over again the next day...
The shackles and stifling air of this world strip us of everything except the freedom of suicide; and this freedom fills us with such strength and pride that we triumph over the burden that plagues us.
To be able to dispose of oneself and to refrain from doing so—is there anything more incomprehensible in the world? The consolation of possible suicide expands the walls of this dwelling, where we suffocate, into an infinite space. The idea of self-destruction, the variety of ways to achieve it, their simplicity and accessibility simultaneously delight and terrify us, for there is nothing simpler and more frightening than the act through which we make an irrevocable decision about ourselves. In one instant, we eliminate all instants; even God Himself could not do this. But, like boastful demons, we postpone our end: how could we give up the demonstration of our freedom, the game of our pride?..
He who has never contemplated self-liquidation, who has not sensed the possibility of resorting to a rope, a bullet, poison, or seawater, is a wretched slave, a worm crawling in cosmic carrion. This world can take everything from us, forbid us everything, but there is no one with the power to prevent us from eliminating ourselves. All means aid us in this, all our abysses invite us to it, yet all our instincts resist it. This contradiction creates an insoluble conflict in the brain. When we begin to reflect on life and discover an infinite void within it, our instincts become the guides and driving forces of our actions; they restrain the flight of our inspiration and hinder our renunciation of obligations. If we were as conscious at the moment of our birth as we are at the end of adolescence, I am certain that at the age of five, suicide would be a common occurrence or even a matter of honor. But we wake up too late: we find years against us, fertilized exclusively by the presence of instincts, surprised by the conclusions to which our reflections and disappointments lead us. And they resist. Nevertheless, having gained confidence in our freedom, we discover within ourselves a resolve—a resolve all the more alluring because we do not use it. Thanks to it, we endure the days and, more importantly, the nights: we no longer feel like beggars or crushed by troubles, for we possess the most important of all possibilities. And even if we never get around to using them, even if we breathe our last in a completely traditional manner, it turns out that a treasure was nonetheless in our hands: is there any greater wealth in the world than the suicide that everyone carries within themselves?
Religions forbade us from accepting death from ourselves only because they saw in this a manifestation of defiance, humiliating to temples and gods. For example, the Cathedral of Orleans considered suicide a sin more grievous than a crime, since a murderer can always repent and be saved, whereas a person who has deprived themselves of life finds themselves on the other side of salvation. But does the act of suicide fit into the radical formula of salvation? And is non-existence not worth an eternity? A man has no need to fight the universe alone; he directs the ultimatum to himself. Nor does he set the goal of being eternal, but only tries to be absolutely himself, performing an incomparable act. He renounces heaven and earth, as well as himself. In any case, he is granted a degree of freedom inaccessible to a man infinitely seeking it in the future...
Until now, neither a single church nor a single city hall has come up with a single worthy argument against suicide. And what can one answer to someone who can no longer bear life? No one is capable of taking on the burden of another. And what arguments does dialectics possess against the onslaught of relentless griefs and inconsolable certainties? Suicide is one of the distinguishing marks of a human being, one of his discoveries; no animal is capable of it, and angels barely suspect it. Without it, the world of man would be not so interesting and less picturesque: it would lack a peculiar strange atmosphere and a whole range of mournful possibilities possessing an undeniable aesthetic value, necessary at least to introduce some new solutions into tragedy and make the resolutions more diverse.
The ancient sages, who granted themselves death as proof of maturity, created a discipline of suicide forgotten by our contemporaries. Doomed to a mediocre agony, we have ceased to be the creators of our departures from life and the arbiters of our farewells. Death has ceased to be our death: we lack the splendor of a one-of-a-kind initiative, by which we would redeem a banal and untalented life, and likewise, we lack the sublime cynicism, the luxurious ancient art of perishing. Stagnant in despair, corpses reconciled to their fate, we all outlive ourselves and die only to fulfill an unnecessary formality. As if the purpose of our life consists in delaying that moment when we can rid ourselves of it.

What are you doing over there, why is everything so bad?