The imbecile does not discover the radical misery of our condition except when he is sick, poor, or old.
I simply have it in me. It is ingrained, most likely inherited. I feel disconnected from this world, out of place, do not belong here. Never felt I did once I was in my early teenage years. I feel like an old man on his deathbed, ready to depart. Only that I most likely still have a few decades before me to struggle through.
No wonder, then, that I reached the conclusion I had to commit suicide at the age of sixteen, and hanged myself at the age of twenty-three. And no wonder either that I naturally became a recluse, feeling drawn, almost as if by some kind of invisible force, to thinkers and poets and writers with similar afflictions and inclinations. One of the first of those was Schopenhauer – a stylistically brilliant writer, a genius without a doubt, someone who despised life on this earth.
I hate life. I hate existence. Even now as a Christian. I don’t see the point in it. And we read that we ought to hate it. I especially hate when supposed “thinkers” who really aren’t rub their shallow and trite “philosophical” viewpoints in my face.
No. I would not have chosen this life. I understand that others don’t see it the way I do. That many might not suffer from my mental anguish, my psychotic mental illnesses. And I do not wish it on anybody, for they truly turn one’s life into a kind of hell. As an atheist, suicide was a no-brainer: why continue to live this useless, paining life? No reason at all.
Now I have to endure it. Even though I really had no zest for life since
I’ve been fourteen/fifteen years old. Most people who are “hungry” for
life simply are narcissists who puff themselves up. Who couldn’t do
without all their crutches: women, promiscuous sex, climbing the social
status ladder, getting degrees and so on; drugs, travel etc.
To be honest it would be great if I were dead already. I cannot picture
living even another decade.
I wish you a happy new year.
(Gómez Dávila):
The imbecile does not discover the radical misery of our condition except when he is sick, poor, or old.