triggerwarning: If you are suicidal, don’t read this. I respect your situation and you, but it would be better not to read this. maybe it will, but I talk about suicide in this post. You are a valuable human being and I respect you. I talk about contemplating suicide in a favourable way. If you don’t think it is, don’t read this post. If you are in any way curious about it, read on.
I think, therefore I would rather not be
The title of this post is rather bleak, I know. I have started watching Squid Game and have been in a contemplative mood ever since. Not a good thing, when you have a tendency to ruminate and be depressed because of it.
I would like to start this thinking exercise, this philosophy exercise to create Descartes’ Demon. Make him real. See him, visualize him. Look in the mirror. Really see him, because when you get the chance, you are already Descartes’ Demon.
Descartes posed that I think therefore I am, a thought he came by thanks to a thought-experiment. What if we all were controlled by a demon, and nothing of our senses could be trusted? How would we know if we were real?
We are real. We are our own Descartes’ demons. We see the reality everyday, realize it is bad, and instead of doing something about it, overthrowing the system, doing something about the injustice that happens, we choose to numb our senses and become Descartes’ Demon.
If someone, a scientist or a madman, created a hedonistic machine, that created a reality like everyday life, but with only hedonistic favorable experiences, we all would be trampling to be hooked to it, but we don’t need to wait. We all do it. Automatically. We would become insane if we didn’t.
Only those, the absurd heroes, that end it all, that commit suicide, are the real heroes of the game. They don’t want to be hooked up to the hedonistic machine and instead of having a brain that wants to fool them with pleasurable chemical substances, they see the world as it really is, and instead of living on, they end it. The bravest choice of all.
This is a paradox, I know. Instead of being Camus’ absurd heroes, being fooled by a brain that tries to trick them with chemical substances, or taking pills that enhance the brains ability to make those substances, tricking our senses into something that doesn’t exist: “a favorable situation, that thanks to a anti-depression pill or a placebo, was thought into existence by your brain”, they see the world as it is, and don’t want to live in it anymore.
They reject the hedonistic machine, the placebo, the anti-depression pill, created by a scientist or madman (depends on your viewpoint) and end their participation in this treadmill. This vicious circle of impending doom.
This is why all of us long for our childhood. Our only real subjective experience, because then we didn’t have to look at the real world yet. Only those of us, with an unfortunate childhood, had our masks ripped off, our connection to Descartes’ Demon ripped, and forced to see the real world, through the eyes of a child. We, the absurd heroes, lived on. From absurd children, became absurd adults, and learned to live in this absurd world, where nothing and nobody really matters, and tried to make something matter and make people matter.
This is, and I am absolutely convinced this is true, that most people that commit suicide are the best and most friendly human beings you will ever come across. I have met a few. Yes, they will make mistakes, but in the end, they see what they have done, and instead of trying to outrun their fate, they create their own fate. They take matters into their own hands and try to end it all, because they really believe they deserve that ending. An absurd ending.
We, absurdists, we tend to have the weirdest viewpoints on things, like this one is one as well. We see suicide as a heroic act. An act of compassion, most of all for ourselves. We are done suffering and instead of wanting others to suffer with us, we end it all. There will be some suffering for those around us, but less so than when we would have stayed alive.
Yes, there is a heroism in committing suicide, just as there is heroism in staying alive in a world like this. An absurd, cold, uncaring world. It’s the people you meet, the heroes that you meet on your journey, so many times around the sun, that make life worth living. Everybody is a hero. You don’t know the battles they have been battling. The absurdity of their life.
Suicide is pressing the “red X” button and quitting the game. Making the courageous decision to value yourself and stopping your suffering. Committing to a final choice.
I know, people, you maybe, might see it differently. Think life is wonderful. Life is worth living. I can only congratulate you in seeing it that way. That you have a brain that makes enough of the chemicals that pulls a mask over your eyes and lets you see the world differently than those that see how it really is, those that don’t have those masks, those chemicals.
Some will think I think suicide is a good thing, and they would be correct. Ending your life, or thinking about ending your life is nothing to be ashamed off. You should never be ashamed off having those thoughts. It is an act of bravery to say these things out loud, because you will get a backlash. “What about the people around you? What about your family?” What about the person that just that they are contemplating suicide? That they have the courageous thought of not playing this absurd game of life anymore? Don’t they matter? Don’t they deserve your though process, your empathy?
Everyday, I have to get up, and convince myself that it is worth it to play another day. To gamble another day, with the rest of you all. Everyday, I have to get up and do the exact same things I did the day before. Try to find meaning in my day to day, to commit to it. To commit to living. Every single day again. Every single day, I have to create Descartes’ Demon, because I know, that life isn’t a hedonistic place, but that I have to create it for myself. I have to find the things that make life matter. I have to create this demon and make things matter. I have to be friends with this demon and know that it exists.
I think, therefore I am. I live, therefore Descartes’ Demon exists. If I die, my own created Demon would die, but everyday, I allow it to create a world for me that doesn’t exist. One were things matter. Where goals exist and are there to be conquered. An absurd game it lets me play. I think, therefore Descartes’ Demon exists.