Yet Another Rant Thread

[WickedOreo]

Life.
It is such a pathetic excuse to invite me to this party. It’s meaningless and a waste of space. The ails I face along with others is beyond the grasp of men, so we are all lumped into the corner of shame, to be ignored and uninvited to the party, collecting dust, and expect us to conform to their rules, no questions asked.

I am forever barred from entering this party, along with endless others who are like me, but suffer even more. Death eagerly accepts us to his celebration of the loss of life. If what I have is unfair to us, then why do I still deny the thrall of death so apparent in my mind?

I embrace death as my own.

The magnitude of mankind is infallible. However, no amount of change will ever prevent men and women from being unimaginably stupid and ignorant, and those blessed with the clarity of intelligence are forever damned with this and more realizations, lest they succumb to hedonisms forbidden. Those truly in tune with the world suffer the greatest losses; depression of the mind, psychologists may coin is but the tip of the iceberg. Men seeks to find definitions and to fix what’s “wrong”, not compromise and understand that what he or she is doing, not acknowledging anything the person is feeling emotionally, but rather taking into account what is normal and not normal to “average human beings”.

I don’t understand. We are all supposedly unique, yet it is considered abnormal when normal life is viewed as dysfunctional?



Psychology can never console the limits of my id, as hard as it may try. It only seeks to define a person in order to provide those (psychologists) with a basis to “understand” the individual and then find some way to “fix” the problem indefinitely, with the bonus of literally stealing money from under our noses when they are trying to “cure us”. What a linear point-of-view.

I am not some scientific experiment that can be tempered to become some hedonistic and magically “better off” person. Furthermore, of what authority is given to tell me what and what I can’t do? The phrase “all men are considered equal” is full of Malarkey and invalid at this time and age.

The ultimate goal of what we intellectuals wish is for is clarity of mind and the relief of the dread and complete and utter misanthropy that we hold, so that we may be able to further our philosophies or perhaps use these to justify our reasons for suicide or the actions we may take to prevent what we’re so passionately in a love-hate relationship with on a daily basis.

To a psychologist who may review my case, there is strong evidence that I have some sort of “depression”, classified by pathological negative thoughts and schemas, among some other physical symptoms such as irritability and other things. To fix this, I am required to comply and follow a doctor and/or licensed therapist’s instructions in order to become a typical human being. No consideration is ever given about anything else. However, when death is added to the equation, everything approaches a much more desired equilibrium in the client’s mind, but the psychologist in question does everything in his power to rectify this thought, to remove it. All of our bodies have approached a state of which their bodies cannot sustain function anymore. I welcome death into myself, to fill me with everything that I was meant to become. I am just one of seven billion people. I shouldn’t’ matter, but everyone makes it out like I do.

This is why psychology is ultimately flawed. It seeks to put us under an umbrella of definitions, a statistical average of the symptoms that others like me have faced, with even more average ways of ‘curing’ it. I do not wish to be rendered a mindless rat, unable to think for myself. My truest intentions are at least having my thoughts understood at a somewhat more meaningful level than really anyone decides to take me. Sure, those in the mental health profession might listen to me, but how many of them will truly agree with me? I guarantee most of them will agree that I am a danger to myself, and they are right. I am dangerous.

I am able to end my life in so many ways, yet I’ve sought for a freedom to this prison that I’ve considered to be my home. The outside world is hedonistic and uncaring towards the technicalities of life, something that I refuse to embrace. My entire being wants to be “normal”, to be the very hedonist I portray to be an evil, but perhaps a necessary evil at that.

The life I live is without comfort. My mind attempts to distract me by offering bauble of salvation. Love. Happiness. Nonchalant and carefree whims. Spontaneity. All is subjective; all is common of a typical hedonist. Hedonism is defined as “enjoying the ride of life.” I most certainly do enjoy the amount of bumps life has given me in this roller coaster. Metaphorically speaking, it has allowed me to break every limb in my body, sundered the childhood spirit once housed b me, and crumpled it, just like this very finite piece of paper. It has an end, and mind has unfortunately died off a very long time ago, perhaps it didn’t even exist. With it gone, I have lost any purpose to live. As mentioned before, love is only a distraction. From a scientific point-of-view, the objective of life is to survive and procreate, nurse our young, and die. Love is a byproduct of the objective of life, something that we can live without. Since we have nearly eliminated the threat of death from our lives, we are but fat scholars now, engrossed with defining every single iota of information that we care to discern about, and not acknowledge the rest of the equation: what are the ulterior motives for life and death, along with trying to understand the implications and rewards of understanding whatever comes in the path that we try to take? Perhaps, I haven’t found an answer, but no one takes the time to ruminate upon it.

I have long thought about what it is like to experience the company of a fellow intellectual for a good part of my natural life. A relationship, if you must. There are many people who instill the thought of “there are other fish in the sea”, when in reality, those who are like me are misanthropic enough to avoid interaction with others, don’t wish to be associated with someone else for the rest of their life, or are, but aren’t looking for someone such as myself. I refuse to change who I am at my core values to tend to the will of someone else.

Nihilism is the key to ascension. Self-defeating the aforementioned response to a question, I had recently attempted to call that and excuse for the ails and general misanthropy I have.

To be blunt, I only live to breathe and perform basic functions now. I have no purpose of writing this journal other than to chronicle my life in but a few shot pages. Other people clearly deserve more recognition than my seemingly short seventeen years of existence have warranted. Anything else is nondescript and unworthy to touch my tainted hands. So is death, but that is a common trait that we both share.

The only coherent question that forms in my mind is, “how should I die?” I have the capacity to die, just like other human beings; I don’t proclaim myself to be immortal. But, truly, how should I die? Should I suffer this terror for the rest of my natural life, or should I utilize some method of suicide that causes me to die? Perhaps the dream in 4th grade holds the key to my ascension.

It was a horrifying dream at the time, before I realized what cutting was. I was myself with my brother, who, at the time, was about 6 or 7 at the time, and there was a younger man in my room with dark brown hair, dull, grey eyes, and stubble, perhaps in his late twenties, early thirties. I believe that I knew him by the name of James. However, he had told me that cutting my wrist open was fun, and he promised that he didn’t hurt. He proceeded to slice his wrist with a knife, and said “See, that didn’t hurt.” His voice was calming, so heart-warming… No blood was spilt from the cut.

My brother was beginning to be lulled by his voice, so I proceeded to spend my time running away from him at all costs, going as far as the other side of the country to lose his trail, but to no avail. He always found me, hiding, cowering in silence. The dream is quite fuzzy after that, but it scared me, and now, I have begun to pay attention to it even more, as it’s much more prevalent in the mindset that I am currently in.

As it haunts my daily life, I have begun to take a very different perspective of it recently. Perhaps death really is fun, like the man said. Perhaps severing my ulnar or radial arteries is really the best way to go. Imagine, all the pain to the path of enlightenment that I have gone through, disappearing before your very eyes, masquerading as my tainted blood. Slowly, it will coagulate before my fetid corpse, before stagnating and losing the quality it had in the physical world.

I have no idea of what lies in death. Maybe there is truly a heaven and hell, or an afterlife, or perhaps nothing at all. It is the one question that we have not been able to answer at all. I would like to answer it, but there are so many questions and ideas not yet discovered.

As I sit here, writing this, I notice that teachers ignoring me or giving me space. I suppose that this writing be some precursor to suicide, I haven’t decided on when or what will happen. I find it particularly amusing that these teachers fail to ask me what I am writing about. In some ways, I am happy about this because I can write unperturbed.

Call me every name in the book: elitist, egotistical, self-centered, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all true, and I embrace it as myself. They say self-loathing and emotion is the key to ascension, but, emotionally detached and loathing of others, I have determined that death is the only real path to ascension from the advanced evolution seemingly designed to weed those that are truly aware in the first place, such as me.

With that being said, I have ambled on for an hour and a half, with nothing much to say other than, “I don’t know.” I don’t know how much longer the hedonism that clouds my mind will linger before exposing the acidity of my hatred of living.



As a short afterword, I would like to say that suicide is something on my mind, but isn't really prevalent at the moment (but moreso during the writing of this), considering my extreme lack of emotion and among other things at the moment. However, I would like it to be taken seriously. Thank you.

[Harmless]

This post by Harmless was thumbed up by:

Oranjui (March 27th, 2014, 7:10 pm)

[WickedOreo]

I figured that I should post furthermore on this issue, on a slightly less... depressed note.

Last night, I had almost performed the deed. The knife was on my wrist, ready to end it here and there. My hemophobia just switched off shortly before.

...But I stopped.

I don't know what stopped me, but the steak knife whose original purpose was to cut dinner served that purpose and none other. I ate dinner so painfully, so slowly. I could not stomach my food without feeling uneasy, even without eating all day. My plate was half-finished. It was one of my favorite meals: pasta with spaghetti sauce.

After I had placed the remains in the fridge, I had talked to a couple of friends of mine, letting them know that I was in this terrible mindset. And then, all of a sudden, clarity.


It was the most gorgeous reprieve of emotion and otherwise chains of the earth. I felt so... empty, but I feel as it was happiness of sorts. My existence felt... non-existent; I could not find or feel myself, my mind was full of fluff. I was in this... feeling until something snapped.

The world suddenly came back to me.

I had begun to feel emotion again. I was repeatedly listening to a VIP drum n' bass mix of Surge by Noisestorm, and had noted that it sounded quite... nice. And when that happened, the emotion that was gone started to come back.

Tears were threatening to flow, but I could not. It was a mixed sense of actual emotion and holding back for a little bit. The main feeling that toiled in my mind was fear. Fear of what just conspired. That quickly went back to my... regular emotion of depression. The desire to cling onto someone close for comfort and be reassured that everything in okay (when in reality, nothing isn't really 'okay') was strong, and so I sought out for some sleep or distraction. After about an hour from chatting with DarthBrowser, we both turned in for the night.

I had slept 10 hours, with a series of very different but vivid dreams, something common in my childhood days. I woke up feeling... normal.



Darth and I had discussed the possibility of my... desires for distraction from these thoughts to be a disguise for my actual personality, something I had recently begun to question myself. The aftermath of the lack of feelings caused me to feel some other repressed feelings of sorts, thoughts that I would never think when distracted from my own feelings.

And now, here I sit, writing this all to you in the morning, about an hour after I had woken up. My mind is clear from depression, and I speak to you with a mind full of clarity, something Darth and I hazarded to be my 'real' personality. Part of me embraces it as my own, while another portion of me wants to become distracted, to become whisked away from this world into another, aided by a person by my side.

I don't think the depression will ever go away, nor will these suicidal thoughts. My only hope is to trump these and perhaps use them to create something better out of it. These recent couple of months had a lesser depression, and I began to grow a 3rd person view of myself while experiencing it. This... other view holds the same mindset as I do right now, and is tending to overpower the depression, at least in some point.

Harmless, my teachers are not mean, they are all caring. They've experienced all facets of my personality, and they tend to let me sort things by myself. They may very well replace my real family, which is only me, my obnoxious brother, and my mother (along with my aunt's family, but they don't live with us). I work with a severely autistic child at school, and I've felt love for him as a true brother. So all is not bad at school.

I live in western Massachusetts, where there is a lot of conservative views, drug dealings, and people who are... less than adequate. I wish to move from this area, but I still call it home. The town I live in is my hometown, and I could never leave it permanently. Perhaps I will do a bit of travelling in my lifetime, as I've never visited anywhere off the east coast of North America.

That being said, I had always thought of my rants to be disorganized, the raw translation on what's in my mind. I always had issues with surmising my point, unfortunately. I am supposed to be Daniel Webster's, one of America's greatest orators, first cousin some generations ago, so one would assume that I carry the power to do the same. Sadly, I do not think that I can.



Thank you, DarthBrowser. Thank you for saving my life.
Thank you for everything that you have done last night and previous nights of depression.

[Harmless]

I'm sorry for assuming.

I'm glad you're alive.

Well crap, I suddenly feel incredibly disgusted by what I said in my post.

[Doram]

This post by Doram was thumbed up by:

Karyete (April 4th, 2014, 10:25 am)