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It’s been many days since I scrunched up my fingers around a pen, notebook in lap. I’ve been dreading this. This act of articulating my thoughts. What if the truth is harsher than what my brain imagined it to be?
Nothingness. How do monks do it?
Music. It makes you smile. It makes you cry.
I feel like tearing myself up. Tiny bits of finely shredded flesh and skin is what I want to be.
Jazz — There’s nothing like jazz. Nothing.
When did I become this way? When did I turn into an unfeeling android?
Wheels. If I had wheels on my feet, I’d skate into the ocean — for I don’t know how to swim.
Pink is the colour of confusion.
A plant smiles through her flowers.
Life feels like aquicksand. I’ve tried climbing out of it. It works for a brief while. But my feet remain stuck. The more I struggle to pull out the deeper I go in. It’s time to give up. Time to enter the cave that lies beneath. Perhaps there I shall find peace.
Every wrinkle in your forehead hides a secret river of tears. One day I’m going to collect my tears in a plastic bottle. One day it’ll fill up. And I’ll drink it.
*
Suicide.
Nothing new about it.
I’ve felt like killing myself so often that it feels like just another colour in the rainbow of emotions. Happy, sad, angry, suicidal. What colour would it be? Perhaps indigo. There’s no other emotion that matches with indigo.
Indigo. Ink. Draining out of a wet sheet of paper.
Suicide. Life. Draining out of a sad, sad person.
I don’t do much these days. Even if I want to, I stop myself. Because trying means living and I don’t want to live.
Life feels like quicksand. I’ve tried climbing out of it. It works for a brief while. But my feet remain stuck. The more I struggle to pull out the deeper I go in. It’s time to give up. Time to enter the cave that lies beneath. Perhaps there I shall find peace.
I’m trying to remember how I turned un-suicidal the last time.
Came across the “Things that make me want to live” list from the summer of 2016. A week of self-imposed curfew. A diet of Cup-o-Noodles, yogurt and many cups of tears. The list was the usual rainbows, frangipanis, dogs and suchlike, except for item no. 17.
17. Feeding the rats at the beach.
I remember that evening. One last biscuit in my hand after having fed Raja and the troop. A rat scurrying under the bajji stall. I was going to eat that biscuit.
Just the previous evening, I’d mentioned to Paro about wanting a pet rat.
Prayer answered.
I crept up to the plastic chair in the far corner of the bajji stall, broke the biscuit into two, placed the larger half under the chair and crept back.
Ordinarily I would have given the rat the entire biscuit but I didn’t want her to think that I felt sorry for her. First impressions matter.
I never saw her again.
Should I make a similar list for now? But I don’t want to write it down. What if it doesn’t amount to much? I’ll have to pop the pills tonight then. And I still have two more seasons of Boston Legal to go.
*
Should I?
Should I not?
Should I?
Should I not??
Should I?
Should I not?
Will someone please get me a flower with infinite petals. I’m beginning to enjoy this waiting game,
*
Who will cry when I die?
It’s a pity my last words will go unheard.
Pink pen blue ink cream paper ruled.
I don’t feel like killing myself today. Neither do I feel like living. My life hangs in balance. They gray area between existentialism and suicidalism.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
I wish I had someone to blame for the way I’m feeling. Why do you ALWAYS have to disappoint me, life?
*
Bucket list.
That’s a good idea. Everyone deserves a go at their bucket list, whether their death be self-administered or otherwise.
One good reason to kill yourself. Eliminates carbon footprint.
If death were a fruit, it would be a coconut. A coconut falling on your head.
My mind is beginning to obsess with its own blankness.
*
All you need is one unused straw to help you pass an entire day. This one was pretty with red and white spirals. Eco-friendly too. Take that, global warming.
Note: To heighten entertainment impact of aforementioned straw, accompany its usage with a mirror.
Ideas:
· Straw moustache
· Straw incisors/canines
· Balance straw on palm
· Balance straw on nose
· Invent 72 ways to twirl straw
· Straw caroms
· Straw magic wand
· Straw to ear
· Blow expletives on imaginary sand through straw
· Perform death charm on mirror with straw wand — best suicide method ever.
I tried Avada Kedavra-ing myself in the mirror. Clearly this eco-friendly straw doesn’t contain the required amount of phoenix tail feathers and unicorn hair. Deep sigh.
*
I spend hours lying on the floor watching the rotors of the fan humming to the monotony that is my life. Finally found answers to annoying slambook questions.
Island book — an empty journal
Song on eternal loop — the music of the sea
Current BGM of my life — the ceiling fan
The thing with fans — they’re consistent
The thing with life — it’s shit
Note: Tying a noose is harder than you’d imagine. Mission Failed.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what I want.
People say that life is a game.
It’s not.
Life is nothing.
From where I sit, I see a pink waterbottle. Plastic. 1/4th empty.
White earphones in a tangle.
An unfinished dreamcatcher.
Emptiness.
*
Assistance for overcoming suicidal thoughts is available on the State’s health helpline 104 and Sneha’s suicide prevention helpline 044-24640050.
