The simple and natural course of my life, as I came to know much later than I should have, is to suffer to the point where I cannot take it anymore, but not beyond it. It is like the elastic limit of a material; stretch up to it and you're safe, go even thousandth of a millimetre beyond it, and you'll have reached the land of no return.
But even until the elastic limit, you aren't without risk.
Suicidal people never become normal. Sure, they might realise the 'importance' of living after facing the face of demise, but that is not normalcy. Somewhere in their brain that inkling desire of self death is always lingering.
Now you, the reader, might inquire about my definition of normalcy, normal, suicidal people, never, become, of, the, natural— define the words as you envision them. Words cannot always perfectly convey a message, so interpret my message how you want to. Don't think too hard, just read on.
As I mentioned earlier, I came to know of this rule much later than I should have. My life prior to a few years ago was uncertain. I didn't quite know of a rule, or a fact, or anything really, to help me navigate my life. I did what felt right, and I did it halfheartedly. My life stood its two tall legs on impulsion and poorly decided notions.
The inner turmoil of a man gone mad is difficult, if not impossible, to explain. What is also difficult is explaining that of a man who is about to go mad, who has not yet gone mad but is not very far from it.
As the curve moves along the straight slope and curves a little, the man has abandoned the limit of proportionality. He has tasted a sliver of the paradoxical bliss of being a mad man, and now he is gearing to leave it all, forever, to become a mad man— or maybe not. Once he has crossed the elastic limit, he is a mad man.
He is tainted. He cannot go back.
If we go back a few steps we are met with the inner turmoil of the man almost-gone-mad. He takes a step forward, towards plastic deformation, and takes two back to remain in the somewhat safe bubble of the elastic limit. He is utterly and totally confused. He breathes and he questions. He walks and he questions. He is a living paradox.
But once he is plastically deformed, it's over. No amount of taking steps backwards can ever change his fate. He will never be the same.
No amount of talk therapy, meditation, or yearning can change that plasticity that lies deep within him.
I am tainted, and I write this message as a cautionary tale. I write this as an admission of acceptance. I am a mad man, a suicidal fool. I surrender to my plasticity.
