I know I ruined my life. Yet, I will blame at my will, whims and fancies, hoping to have at least this liberty as I recline with repentance in this defeat that encapsulates me. My friends ruined me. My parents ruined me. My relatives ruined me. The world ruined me. The atmosphere ruined me. Artificial education and my life ruined me; it filled me with unnecessary sensibilities once unwanted by me. It planted in me the cruel seeds of utility, the detestable desire to be useful. It made me competitive. It exposed me. It did not make me wise; wisdom remained far out of my reach, then, now, always. Is wisdom good? I don’t know, I don’t care. It dumped in me the sour acidic waste called ambition. More horrific than pestilence, this desire to be important, the itch of importance is irking me. Every day, every night, I bear its burden upon me, scratching myself to satiate it. One day my back might break and my nails would tear my body open. I fear that day less and await it.
World is cruel, money is its ground reality. Look to your left, look to your right, same pigs everywhere, differentiated by gender, color, nationality and other miserable innovations of humanity, but the same pigs are everywhere, with their twisted tails and their twisted tales, trying to make as much money as they can. When they make money, they grunt in joy, when they lose money they grunt in annoyance, or in silence. The grunting is constant, and their echoes reverberate in my ears, day in and day out, monotonous and unscientifically amplified. The sight of these pigs is unbearable to my eyes, shutting my eyes did not prove to be a remedy. These disgusting creatures adulterate my senses; they suck hope out of me.
I cannot blame them though, money gives them comfort, it brings them safety and it delivers them many more things they crave. Then whose fault is it? Who invented money? It started with barter, it flourished with currency, and it shall end in misery, inevitable universal misery.
Die, each one of you! Why live here in vain? Happiness does not exist here; it is just an illusion, a momentary relief from the eternal sorrow in this world. This place is not for us to thrive. It is merely a colorful graveyard. You might find its colors amusing, but it won’t cease to be what it truly is. Let me reveal to you all, the ultimate secret, the question none could answer until now. I shall answer it for you.
What is the purpose of our life? We all share the same purpose. The purpose of any and every life is death. We are born just to die, for nothing more, for nothing less. Like a long or a short yet limited period of punishment. People play their games in their times, some win, some lose, yet all die. Death is the only certainty of our lives. Why are we scared of it? Why should we avoid it? Every day we breathe in and breathe out air, and survive, just as a cocaine addict snorts his drug. We are no different from cocaine addicts, they die early and we a little later.
Death is the only unifying human factor. We are born different, in different locations, into different families, into different circumstances. Our differences can never be erased in this place, our inequalities cannot be cleared in here. Death shall unite us all, the poor and the rich, the loud and the mute, the dumb and the intelligent, the cautious and the careless, the courageous and the cowardly.
Death is our aim, death is our goal, death is our release, and death is our hope, some are conscious of this and some are not. My friends, relatives, parents, strangers, everyone, I address you all. My love for you is pure and unselfish and is the reason for this prescription of mine. I give you my hand. Our births were random nonsensical noisy events, let us at least take our deaths into our hands. Let’s put an end to this world. Our births divided us, but we shall all unite in death. Let us hope the future, if it exists, is not another graveyard. Let’s hope for the future in which the events are in our hands, based on our choices, based on our will. Let’s die everyone, let’s die proudly. Let us hope that we go to that place of our dreams. There at least,
We shall be free; th’Almighty hath not built
There for his envy will not drive us hence:
There we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.
Gratitude and apologies to John Milton (1608 – 1674)