Earlier, when I didn’t think about things deeply, I detested suicidal people, perceived them as cowards, precarious people who succumbed to the pressures of life. Most of the suicides around me were either a byproduct of societal expectations or unbearable traumas such as abuse. Those were pitiable suicides, suicides that didn’t seem alluring to me. But then I heard about the second kind of suicides: the suicides that writers and artists had committed. David Foster Wallace. Mark Rothko. Van Gogh. Robin Williams. Jackson Pollock. They seemed very relatable. These suicides were the culmination of sheer thoughts! Imagine how utterly deep the suicide was. You are thinking and you have thousands of possibilities to think – you can think about your zestful memories, your first love, your parents, the places you have been to, your favourite music but you choose to think about one particular thing that makes you embittered, nihilistic, small, thwarted, over and over again, so much so that it takes control of your life and nosedives it into oblivion. The philosophy behind suicides is profound. P.S. It is a philosophical musing. I am not suicidal at all.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 05:06:21 +0000
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