“Suicide rates in the U.S. continue to rise, and working-age adults – particularly men – make up the largest increase, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Middle-aged men in the 45 to 60 range experienced a 43 percent increase in suicide deaths from 1997 to 2014, and the rise has been even sharper since 2005. Untreated mental illness, the Great Recession, work-related issues and men’s reluctance to reach out for help converge to put them at greater risk for taking their own lives. And because men are more likely than women to use a gun, their suicide attempts are more often fatal.”
Does no one realize that this may be the inevitable evolution of humanity?
Let’s face it. The Universe IS ABSURD! The reason for its existence is utterly unfounded. And, ipso facto, if the Universe is pointless anything within it is, by association, also pointless. Now don’t give me your bullshit arguments about any contrived reasons for existence — they are, by definition, contrived. Dreamed up. Fabricated by an overly large brain of an aberration species that just happens to be humanity.
Humanity is an accident brought forth in a chaotic stew of happenstance, all bound within a system of physics and phantasm that is this spontaneous creation that is the Universe. And if you THINK you’ve got a purpose, well, you undoubtedly dreamed it up, created it for your own purposes (or rather for DNA’s purpose, unbeknownst to you) to convince yourselves that life is worth living. That thoughts of suicide are an illness. Bullshit!
Suicide is simply the realization that, yes, the Universe is without purpose — AND THERE’S NO WAY YOU CAN PHILOSOPHIZE YOUR WAY OUT OF THAT FACT.
So, middle age men (me) are killing themselves more often? NO SHIT! It’s called achieving a higher understanding of the realities of existence — of which there are none. It’s intelligence, the attainment of the ultimate transcendent frame of mind. Not an illness. The only fucking reason I’m still typing this shit is that I’m a fucking coward. I’m a fraud. And the thoughts that bubble forth between unpacking the pistol, loading it with shells, finding the right time and location to vanish from existence — choke my resolve.