REFLECTION FROM FEBRUARY 4TH, 2008**
RE: THE PHILOSOPHY BEHIND SUICIDE AND THE MEANING BEHIND LIFE
WRITTEN – 2/4/2008 @ AGE 26
Let me tell you something – I don’t know where in the world these people come up with the notion that life is necessarily better than death. I mean, it would be one thing if we all made the initial determination to be here in the first place. But in light of our complete and utter denial as to the choice of existence, perhaps, one could say, the most important decision of all of existence, I don’t think others should be so judgmental where a person finds based upon his or her own particular circumstances that the pain and suffering of living far exceeds any benefit that may be derived therefrom, and therefore decides to take his or her life.
I mean if someone happens to be lucky enough to live a life in which they are able to derive more pleasure than discomfort, pain and suffering from living, who the hell are they to say that the meaningfulness of their existence necessarily implicates meaningfulness to every other person’s existence as well? And wouldn’t it follow, if one person finds meaning in their life and thinks others should stick around to find meaning in theirs, that they are thereby held under an obligation to help these others find the meaning of their existence?
I think about death a lot, if you can’t tell. I think about death because I have trouble finding meaning in my life, real heartfelt meaning, and it makes me wonder – if there in fact is no meaning in the first place, then what in the world is so heinous about taking the life of oneself? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t condone murder or anything of another human being at all. But I do think that each person has the right to choose whether living their life is more worthwhile than ending it, I believe conscious existence should be a choice, not something that is forced upon us.
Wordy wordy, I’m so f@#king wordy today.
When my head is like this, full of meaningful thoughts but swarmed only with meaningless prose with which to portray the beauty of what I can see, it really just f’ing depresses me. It all feels so f’ing pointless. Gray days, gray days, the gray days are never ending. I feel like my life has been 85% full of gray hazy days not worth living in the first place, but that I fear ending my life because I don’t want to lose out on those damn sunny days. That notion just really f’ing pisses me off. I guess I live on my sunny days and write on my gray days, so at least all the gray might have some sort of meaning and semblance in the end.
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