On Suicide and Self-Destruction

[This could be triggering — but that’s the last thing I intend. If you are suicidal, please reach out. And if you have no one you can talk to, please talk to me.]

So you want to die. Maybe you’ve already opened your skin a little, to see blood and feel alive. I’m not going to tell you how to live — I’m going to tell you how to kill your Self, your ego that hurts so much. And maybe it’s the weirdest advice you’ll ever hear, but life is fucked up sometimes, so hear me out.

You can be free from yourself, and it’s just as thrilling as jumping into traffic. It’s as hardcore as cutting and the risks are high.

Imagine you’re already dead — your Self doesn’t matter — life doesn’t matter — you’re a ghost. Kill yourself in your mind, now, and cut your soul so deep you might never be the same.

You’re already dead; so you have nothing to fear. No responsibilities to worry about.

Have you ever dreamed of throwing yourself in front of an 18-wheeler? With all the thrill of pain and terror and meeting the unknown? I have a different way, and I won’t tell you it’s any better, but why not try? You’re already dead, so what have you got to lose?

Throw yourself in front of a lonely stranger and ask them if they’re okay. Then just listen, like the ghost you are.

I don’t know what will happen. No one does. But you’re dead, so don’t take things so seriously. Laugh like it’s all a joke, this life, and give up all the fear you have left.

Be free from yourself for a little while. It’s a terrifying and thrilling thing. You might find it more exciting than opening your skin or getting high. Instead of giving up your blood and pain, give up energy and time. It’s as risky a sacrifice as physical destruction.

Try something just as exhilarating as standing on the very edge of a bridge. Jump off the edge of your Self and its fears. If you’re into risky behaviour, take risks with your heart and soul.

It may not feel better. And I know you just want to feel better, at the heart of it all. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a reason to stay out of traffic and get in front of other people’s rushing souls instead. Maybe if you kill yourself and your fears in your mind, you’ll find the freedom to be yourself in life.

Schrodinger’s Cat

Schrodinger, tired of his colleagues’ jokes, was known to hiss vehemently that he hated cats.

The truth is, he simply had never had one. He had a wife and a mistress under the same roof, though, and for years he thought that was enough.

He was a bit of a stray himself, which is probably why he yielded when Milton came round to his door. The thing was skinny and reeking, so Schrodinger took him in and shared bits of his toast at the breakfast table. His wife and mistress made quick work of cleaning Milton up and no one scratched anybody, and things were as normal as ever.

Of course it made the jokes louder. At least he was in on it now, he told himself.

But he’d never had a cat, and this one, he thought, was a very conscious observer. Whenever Schrodinger’s gaze lifted from his eggs, even for a moment, he’d return to find less on his plate than before, and Milton was always watching him.

He told his mistress one morning that cats could not be suspended in waveforms of possibility. Milton, surely, would know his own fate and thus be the first observer — physicists be damned. His mistress frowned, made him tea, and told him he was thinking too much again.

Maybe he was. But it made him happy, he thought, as Milton purred half-asleep on his lap.

And that was more than enough.