Confrontations and Suicides
We are living in a civilization that neatly hides death, bombarded by all the state of the art devices of somatorgasmic, hypersensual entertainments and devices to enhance our bodies, hiding the illness, the cadaver, the rot away from our delicate eyes and nostrils.
When we encounter death we moan and groan and grieve, we turn our eyes away from the cold fact that someone is dead. Be it a homeless person in the streets, surrounded by onlooker voyeuristic necrophages, passers-by — just to check whether he’s really dead and then quickly running away after a disconcerting fact that maybe he truly is.
I stood with Saturnine Azrail’s black wings on my back observing this whole ceremony. A close relative of mine passed away, I know what grief is, I’ve seen cadavers laying in slums of Asia, I’ve seen people shot in gang-fights, I’ve seen half-decaying souls of humans falling neatly into the shadows, the world of Thanatos, eidola, the dead souls of those whose done nothing through life in the eyes of eternity sure’s presage. Many had seen much more death than they’re supposed to, many had seen more than my poor old self.
As a person with two unsuccessful suicides behind me, and a probable murder of a person that assaulted a woman (he didn’t stand up, and I was a teenager that gave him a wrathful trashing) — murder, being illegal murder as contradicted with state murder which is apparently more soldierly and legal.
I must say that in both cases of suicide I committed those acts in secrecy, first suicide was in a state of mania, I heard only “this one doesn’t cry” from the thin air, after eating all the pills and sedatives that I had, I ended up in a toxicological department of a hospital only to be humiliated in a psychiatric ward later on. Probably people who cried during suicide weren’t prepared to die, just yet. And I do assure you, my world ended many times before.
The later trip was a dignity suicide, when I went to the river in my ceremonial robes and thrust a knife against my throat four times, as hard as I could. First of all, it’s not easy to overcome the biological instincts, then again it needs to be planned, third it needs to be carried out, as fast as possible before instincts of fear kick in. I’ve missed the external jugular vein and the knife submerged in my neck cutting through the skin, yet bouncing of my throat beautifully.
After bleeding profoundly and experiencing a terminal shock I’ve seen rainbow bridges, Gods welcoming me, the senses sharpened to the finest points, even the river was roaring with majesty, I felt as if in a womb of Divinity.
I’m not an advocate of suicide, nor murder, I’m an advocate of two things: Not to fear death, and not to be afraid to slay and be slayed — as a motion of last resort.
Maybe you may think I play a devil’s advocate here, but we are living in a cosy atmosphere of pleasure and comfort, terrorized by the slightest feeling of pain, scared of confrontation with Thanatos in a bureaucratic lackluster business as usual.
What is it with this governmental decision to prohibit death on citizen’s level? It’s for statistical productivity reasons, so let’s not moralize about it. It’s a delicate issue, for people who weren’t prepared to commit suicide oft die from despair and depression that shrinks the horizons of life ahead of them. What I’m advocating is not the act, but the internalization of death within, the overcoming of fear, to defeat nightmares, you need to become one, at least in part.
The culture that is most fearful of death is Christianity, contrary to what it advocates, it merely apotropacaically eludes death, yet it worships a corpse that by no standards was a god. Christianity has “thou shall not kill” on its lips, yet slaughtered 350 mln + people in its sacrosanct imbecilism of cannibalism in the name of love, putting a single idea on the pedestal, discarding the rest. The devastation that this religion caused across the world with its modern weaponry and tools of the trade is limitless.
Writing from a pagan perspective, in ancient time suicide was treated like an act of bravery, for a philosopher that reached a summit of his life, and for a warrior that did not die in battle. A Hindi warrior slayed ruthlessly, yet he didn’t “sin” (a Hebrew invention), nor was his victim “slayed” if they were both in the Lila (a Hindi concept for the play) of warrior’s ethos.
Codices of various cultures had numerous ideas about the concept of ritual, honorary suicides. Yet, none of them ever feared death. The highest rates of suicides are counted where alienation, degutting of cultural values, slave labor, eerie work ethos and consumerist overworking imported from the West sanctifies its triumphs over human bodies, minds and souls.
Only through the gates of death you may truly affirm life, not through cosmetic, unhumanely ways of putting powder on the cheeks of life and pretending that you live, like a perfumed corpse. To reach that point is to realize death and sacrifice it for the purpose of life, like the Ugarit Mot (God of Death) was sacrificed in order to rejuvenate the land with the rites of fertility.
In times of danger and great omens of evils ahead, few preserve their heads, yet fewer still see clearly, while attempting to avert the imminent. Most, even most conscious ones leniently seek to perceive future evils as convenient. To “tame them”, “make them safe”, “mock them away”, “sleep them into ignorance”, before they roll out in their utmost terror. People are not pulled in, people make decisions, at least before it’s too late. “It’s not that bad, after all”, the future servants of a regime are rebels against the order that opportunistically catch the threads of history. The future henchmen of the apparatus are the brutes of the now. All those who are loyal to a monstrosity are favored by it until they are devoured by it themselves. When the machinery works full throttle, then everyone is pulled into the meat-mincer and there’s no turning back. There’s no difference in uniforms, honestly, when ideology, doctrinarism comes into play. It is a parasite that sucks out all the blood-juices out of one’s reason, intellect, virtue, dreams and hopes. Show me what you’re a slave to, and I’ll tell you what your monstrosity may be! Show me what you love, and I’ll tell you wherein the devils tango ensues! It turns a disciplined man into a cruel war criminal, a sadist. It turns an intellectual into a whore betraying his ideas. It turns a noble person into a wretched blinded fool. It turns the weak into treacherous and malicious, it turns the strong into raging destroyers.
Crushed, beaten, ruined, despaired, bite your teeth raging within and bite through this rotten meat! What do you expect? Applause? Gratitude? Honors? Move silently, steadily, stealthily, decidedly, wanton of favors is mere vainglory.
You solely make this world, it is you! You! You! Not the “rest”, not the “crowd”, not the “mob”. If you follow wave of horrors, injustice, inhumane vice, anonymous indifference, petty roundabouts. If you let it break you, you won’t be a wretch. You will be another flare of hope falling down to the ground without passing on this Olympian flame to those who desire it. Millions walk the Earth, their graves as anonymous as their lives. Their souls mere shadows, whether elevated on fortunes thrust, they can’t even manage their own resources. Damaged into destitution, they aren’t taught to value things beyond their misers state. The lightning of Zeus is the great chance illuminating this world that strikes to fetter the chains of the prisoners. That like a lion roaring through the abyss calls its own into memory that is the daughter of truth, into the embrace of mother hope.
If you won’t pick it up, who else will? Have measure according to what you can manage, have prudence in your affairs. Heavens work continuously and be it a last whimpering child that sees a consoling figure through devastation wrought by men upon men. It will be like an Emperor’s son or daughter that returns home in nobility and pride. Earth is our home, true! But there is also pneumatic kinship with the world soul for a figment of this universal Paean. We cry in dissonance and longing below the weapons of mass distraction. Instead of making this world a harmonious place, while waging war of the elements and natures, getting this Artemisian bow stout. To make us ready to pitch our focused star to strike the target, we throw it away to dust. Times are different, the toil burdensome and heavy faces turned towards flickering illusions. Rare are the moments of illumination, great is the tyranny of sorrow and woe!
Now, it is the confrontation that matters. It is the persistence, perseverance, continuous toil that makes characters. It is an act of defiance to yell liberty, while in chains. To love, when hateful and cruel. To feel raging compassion, conscientia, when there’s nothing left of us. To still and command wisdom and foresight, when all we see is confusion, idiocy, foolishness riding the minds and hearts and souls of so many a’people.
Hit the dust and stand straight, to carry on. When you tear your scars and wounds open, even maggot-infested and all rotten, focus on the act. Minds are such embattled things, bodies so easily break, souls devastated do not feel anymore. Yet the genius, the spirit of a man, a woman beckons on and on. It calls upon the desolate worlds below for a gasp of free air affirmed between despair and terror. With an iron sword unsheathed it cuts through the veils of shadows, with a penetrating sight, it sees the stars and corridors of fires. Oh you shall fail so many times in being strong! Oh you will feel weak and defeated, bitter and full of destitute wrath! Equipped with this rusty semblance of a pierced armor and open wounds you won’t simply die! You are writing your necrology, inasmuch as you are writing your life and apotheosis! Do not lay trust in people, do not depend on external conditions, they swing your mind back and forth, your fortunes and fates left and right! Omnia mea mecum porto. Everything you have you carry with you. I’ve been through insanity, I’ve been through pain, I’ve been a beaten dog, a cornered wolf not once, but thousands of times. After thousands of psychic wars, strategical and tactical moves having one end in sight, twisted by evils, tormented by fools. What can you do? Lick your wounds, despite being daggered again and again! Attack when necessary, defend if you may, yet continue in the great toil, as you may!