Post Mortem (novel): main character's suicide note
Oh, what times have come upon us! Demons, mongrels, sadists stalk my every step. It's a war out there! A battlefield! And I have seen 'things' stranger than you could ever imagine. "What sorts of things?" you would ask. "People, places, things..or ideas." would be my response; subsets of the set "noun." And what is the quality in a noun that sets the bar of strangeness into the even stranger? How do these things become anything beyond their rigid form? What of humans, in all their feats, their intellect and triumph over nature can still manage to reduce themselves to magic and mysticism?
Questions like these have haunted my soul for quite some time. Like an itch that spreads and grows the more i scratch. And though I am only in my twenties, my mind and body feel so old and weary. Such brilliant minds have I confronted. So powerful yet so lost. So many friends gone, all of whom I once held dear, in all their blemishes, their sin, their filth, their greed, their passions. And all at eachother's throats, my brethren, in philosophical quagmire. All with hesitant but ever changing conviction, even participating in it, for the so-called "greater good", the so-called "truth." Some actions over which in the throes of magnificent passion, zeal or malice I would later have cried my eyes out, choking and gushing until exasperated and bloodshot. Or perhaps vomited in disgust until heaving.
Books of Nietzsche, Marx, Plato, Kant are from extensive use only true love could afflict, tossed aside like old clothes or icons I once identified with. Desires no longer yearned, injustices no longer felt, solutions obfuscated into inapplicable abstractions, pursuits long since forgotten daunted by lack of substance (or was it comprehension?). So many beliefs, capturing my imagination through the persuasion, the charisma of friends/comrades, feeding yet enticing me for more. Always hungry and never full. Always out of reach.
And amidst all this I am a fool to have asked myself "where does it all end?" It has brought me to this conclusion: "In the vacuum of infinite space." In my human capacity, I weep for those who will miss me. Bit in my heart I feel nothing. Not even the weight of grief I will have shifted onto family and friends.
Goodbye.
[in the story, this is a failed attempt]
Questions like these have haunted my soul for quite some time. Like an itch that spreads and grows the more i scratch. And though I am only in my twenties, my mind and body feel so old and weary. Such brilliant minds have I confronted. So powerful yet so lost. So many friends gone, all of whom I once held dear, in all their blemishes, their sin, their filth, their greed, their passions. And all at eachother's throats, my brethren, in philosophical quagmire. All with hesitant but ever changing conviction, even participating in it, for the so-called "greater good", the so-called "truth." Some actions over which in the throes of magnificent passion, zeal or malice I would later have cried my eyes out, choking and gushing until exasperated and bloodshot. Or perhaps vomited in disgust until heaving.
Books of Nietzsche, Marx, Plato, Kant are from extensive use only true love could afflict, tossed aside like old clothes or icons I once identified with. Desires no longer yearned, injustices no longer felt, solutions obfuscated into inapplicable abstractions, pursuits long since forgotten daunted by lack of substance (or was it comprehension?). So many beliefs, capturing my imagination through the persuasion, the charisma of friends/comrades, feeding yet enticing me for more. Always hungry and never full. Always out of reach.
And amidst all this I am a fool to have asked myself "where does it all end?" It has brought me to this conclusion: "In the vacuum of infinite space." In my human capacity, I weep for those who will miss me. Bit in my heart I feel nothing. Not even the weight of grief I will have shifted onto family and friends.
Goodbye.
[in the story, this is a failed attempt]