Living is Dying

Living is Dying

Suicide is a brief affair for those who fancy it expedient, for others it’s gradual, tacit.

“I pull out a cigarette from my jacket’s inner pocket and light it. Taking a hearty toke, a sinuous trail of smoke snakes out through my lips and progressively fades into nothing.”

It was a cool Tuesday evening, and I’d found altitude, among other consequences. Unwinding to a swig of something faux-French, I tried to reinvent myself. I’ve never really asked for much, just good philosophy and good cuisine; the former for the soul, the latter for the gut.

We’re all trying to kill ourselves, de fideli; I’m just aware of it. Making multiple attempts to self-terminate through a motley of indulgences because cumulative effect is no less suicidal than taking razor to artery, just less expeditious.

“I take another drag, this time, nasally. The smoke burns my nostrils, but the satisfaction compensates for the pain”.

We’re all inching towards a common end. Some more briskly. Some more stylishly. I’m half a blunt away from oblivion, passively side-stepping the nudge of immortality; I could live, or die, forever. As I sat here, ebbing slowly, the rest of my race was somewhere and everywhere, mirroring me in alternative iterations. Each member of my race a faulty component, each component a self-annihilative facet, circuited into the mesh of cause and effect, ad infinitum.

The human collective is jointly edging towards a common exit; valediction, fin. Thanatos, our purge. We live so much we end up dying, counter-intuitively. The paradox of daily living. We want life, but in a mock fashion.

“I backtrack to re-establish the sentiment, it’s expired. I venture for another blunt, vive la vie.”

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