17.10.2025
Life had become a thing with thorns in it for many. A complicated and crushing thing. It was evident that happiness was only for the others. So now, the people did not want to live.
So they would go to the game of dying.
You could die any way that you wanted to. For a moment, you could feel the ease of death. Just for a few pounds. You could escape this thing called life and this trap that was the world.
The game of dying promoted itself as moksha, the Hindu ideal of freedom and departure from the chain of being and constant rebirth.
The downside was that even after dying, you had to go back into the world.
You could choose how you wanted to die. Poisoning. Being stabbed. Burning.
First, I started off by being poisoned. After all, was this world not poison that one had to swallow? It was exceedingly painful. The throat would swell up, there was severe nausea. It was hard to breathe.
My next death was the revolver. I would sit there with it, staring into the barrel of it, completely focused. I would forget about all the many problems and the unfulfilled cravings, of the friends and loves that had betrayed me. Then when I pulled the trigger, the beautiful oblivion…
But now, the death I chose every time was burning. It was the most painful death. Excruciating and unbearable. The most intense death.
They would watch us. The ones that had led us to death, they came in droves to watch us. The ones that had taken all the happiness would watch, eating popcorn, smiling at each other. It was an amusement for them and we were their clowns. They had always watched our suffering and poured petrol upon us while we burned. That was how the world went around.
diary of a lone man 