My right to die

I've found something to say, so here goes.
When our animals suffer, we put them down. They die a dignified death, but we do not extend that same privilege to ourselves. Instead, as humans we are conditioned to suffer, to push the body to its limit, anything to avoid death. And this is something I simply do not understand. When a human being suffering from a disease wishes to go gently into that good night, he is not allowed to end it all. What’s so noble about that? Age is debilitating, illness even more.
We claim to have achieved so much as a society, but when it comes to death, we fall back on medieval practices. So, the doctors will pump you with every possible, horrible painkiller, medication and whatnot, to keep you alive. You cannot walk, cannot think, drool like an infant, and you’re wasting away, but you’re alive, and that’s what couns. Shall we all rejoice?
We send our soldiers to die, turn a deaf ear to genocide and religious cleansing, but we cling on to this right that we think we have: The right to live.
But what about my right to die? Why should the government decide that I don’t have the right to die? When I am old and my mind is addled, or when I’m suffering from cancer or some other painful disease, I don’t want to live. I want the same right that my dog has. Instead, I’ll have to find some horrible, bloody way to end it all. There’s no comfort in that, no dignity. I keep thinking of Dorothy Parker’s little ditty:
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
And so we live. Life goes on, until death comes for us. And we watch as the mind fails and the body weakens – helpless to do anything.
My grandfather, I’m told, spends most of his time sleeping. He is old and weary. He has nothing to say to anyone anymore. And he lives with my grandmum in a big empty house, waking up only to eat and bathe. He is dying, the family whispers. No, he’s not. After 90 years on this Earth, he wants out. But no one is listening to him.
I hope that when my body (and mind) begins to disintegrate rapidly, society will allow me my right to die. But I’m not placing any bets on that one.

Who let the hope out?

Pandora’s story is on my mind. Not only did she release the evils into the world, she also released hope. We live in the hope that life will get better… and so we continue to exist. But what if this is as good as it will ever get? Human nature cannot accept that, so we live a dreary existence, seeking pleasure as and where we get it. We battle despair with Prozac; we lull the mind with routine, we give ourselves goals, we convince ourselves of the existence of a higher purpose, and we live like rats in the sewer that is life. Only the brave can admit that there is no hope. And once that reality hits home, they decide to do away with the sham that is life. But for the rest of us who are brought up on the lie that life is a gift, we trudge on desperately seeking greener pastures. One day we will cease to exist, but we push such thoughts deep into the recesses of our mind, and we choose life. These days I am learning not to rely on hope, but it raises its silvery head often enough to prevent me from ending it all. And so I say to myself, It will get better. But it won’t, will it? I’m supposed to be thankful that I don’t live in poverty, that I lead a charmed life. If a man who has lost his brother, nephew and wife in a span of two years can find joy and satisfaction in life, what reason do I have to complain. So I’m grateful for my existence, and wait hopefully, like a dog waiting for someone to pat his head. But one day, when the despair settles permanently, when I finally accept life without Pandora’s hope, I will end it all. In the meantime, I have to sleep, so I can rise in the morning bright and early to catch my measly worm.

What women want

The female of the species is believed to be more deadly than the male. And there is some truth to this, because most women simply don’t know what they want. We think we want it all, or some of it: eternal love, the great career, the passionate romance, a close circle of friends like the Ya Ya sisters, the perfect body. Once we have it, we discard it. For some reason it’s not enough.

Our needs never get satiated. Many of them are irrational and illogical, but we roam the cityscape hunting for that elusive Holy Grail. Some give up and draw consolation from mediocrity, from the mundane. Others seek the highs of instant gratification. But the problem with this is that it is instant, it is transient. It will fade into obscurity and then you have to begin your search anew for the next new high.

Find me a happy and satisfied woman, and I’ll break the carefully nurtured sham that society has inflicted on her. Despair, desire and delirium are always lurking in the background. My greatest fear is that this is as good as it will ever get. In desperation, I search for the next adrenaline rush, sifting through the remnants of my broken dreams.

I am loved, but it’s not enough. I have a great body, but my tummy isn’t flat enough. I’ve read a bit, but there’s so much more to learn. My job gives me plenty of freedom, but it fails to satisfy. Mood altering drugs simply don’t cut it for me anymore. I draw no comfort from my memories which are intangible reminders of the past. So I walk alone looking for the next big high. What if I don’t find it? Or worse still, what if I find it just to discover in the cold light of day that it’s just not enough. What then?

The Diary

Social networking sites allow you the perverse pleasure of watching others live their lives, while yours passes into futility and inanity. I am browsing through the snapshots of other people’s lives. Brithdays, holidays, family gatherings… And mine? I never take photographs, one day I may regret it, but I cannot bear to look at the stillness of the past.

The last three days have been perfect, that is if I erase my interactions with fellow human beings. After reading Virginia Woolf’s diaries, I have decided that I am quite jealous of her. DH Lawrence never surprises, but it is Moliere who makes me laugh the most. I would have loved to have met him. It seems he had a theatre company, where he was the only man.

People are talking to me; my phone keeps ringing. But I choose to ignore their voices. I cannot deal with emotions -- mine or theirs. Tomorrow I will listen. For now, life is a hazy dream, and I’m floating in a pool of serendipity.