Joe


I’ve had some time on my hands as of late, so I thought I should update this corner of the internet with the interesting things I've been up to. I’ve deprioritised all important aspects of life and replaced them with nothing of value. I promise this isn’t a self-aware depressive episode; I think that would get quite old quite fast, besides it's something everyone seems to be into these days and the only thing I dislike more than the current state of affairs is being trite. I do not plan on living in my own self-pity, regardless of how much I may romanticise it. 


I stumbled upon an old online journal a few days ago. Let’s call the author Joe. I do not remember his real name. He seemed like a nice guy, a fellow reader and self proclaimed intellectual. Awfully concerned with existential meaning though. His stories, although at times too macabre for me, were quite interesting and very well written. I could see his disease leaking through his words however. His obsession with finding meaning had led him down a nihilistic rabbit hole which we all know is quite the gateway drug for, well, drugs. His last few posts were all about how he couldn’t wait for his next mushroom trip, which incidentally, would also be his last. 


Joe blew his head off with a shotgun in the spring of 2002. His parents, distraught and looking to make the best out of the situation, continued on the journal in his honor where they posted suicide awareness content and publicity for their fundraisers and what not. I’m not sure how money raised can help in stopping suicide, but they seemed like honest people who truly believed their son could have been had they known about his drug abuse. To me though, Joe seemed depressed way before he started using drugs. He often said thinking about nihilism was his only distraction from the truths of nihilism. I feel like he just found a better distraction in recreational drugs. 


What stuck out to me really was none of this; His suicide seemed to be a natural next set of proceedings to his posts. What bothered me was that this man was not just a fool with a unidirectionally depressive set of thoughts who ended up blowing his head off. No, he seemed a well read, mature and intelligent young adult with quite a cushy life. Maybe knowledge is indeed the root of all suffering. I was quite alarmed, I ought to shut my books and take to doomscrolling immediately, lest it be too late for me. But then again, I have heard instances of suicide for stupid issues committed obviously by stupid people. Thinking about it, the perceived stupidness of the issues could arise from false notions of those left behind, like how Joe’s mother believes he died due to drugs. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, perhaps this fate can befall us all. What an eerie thought. 


In other less morbid news. I have become a full time writer. This position is not characterised by extensive writing but instead by a lack of doing anything else. Add in a bigger room for me to fully extend  my legs and a steady flow of junk food. What a dream job that would be indeed.


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