To love and to be loved
I don’t know if I am capable of either.
The very idea of love, of family— was beaten out of me;
I was taught love is weakness and I don't know how that ever will change.
— Excerpt from Rebel Moon
Loneliness could be a curse. Or, in a different sense, it could be a gem to enjoy. Once I read a novel by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay; one of my most favoured novelists in Bengali literature, where he highlighted the royalty of solitude through a particular character. It was more or less like this— Suffering willingly accepted can be enjoyed like riches. Quite provoking, I must say. What could be more suffering than loneliness, being alone?
I was scrolling through the web the other day; and was looking for random things— movies, in general. I couldn’t remember the exact name of the movie I was searching for, so, typed some random keyword and stopped by an article on The Guardian. The Pursuit of Loneliness. The title echoed through an old memory of a movie that made me realise how the willingness to survive and take care of the family can motivate a father to go the extra mile despite odds at every step. You may remember it as well— Pursuit of Happiness is the name of the movie.
How contrasting yet alike!
Anyway, the article quoted—
Loneliness is a darker thing than just being alone. It’s a stillness that gives you a preview of death.
I felt like the Grim Reaper is a few steps away from the room I am living in now; waiting outside to give me the ‘preview,’ lol.
It’s not like I am feeling lonely at this moment, but the previous tenant had an accident. He tried to commit suicide in the very room I live in now. He used to be a very quiet person with rare social interactions with other tenants in the house. And we all used to enjoy the way he was— on his own, seemingly no friends, no chaos. But right after he tried to meet the Grim Reaper at midnight, we came to know all. His frustration, the year-long agony he kept within himself and all that.
I still remember his face covered with blood and facing down. I could see the determination to live longer on his face; not today— he thought at the very last moment, I guess. He took an overdose of some medicines and was restless before everything around him slowed down. He could barely walk or stand up but he wanted to live; called the ambulance before he completely lost his strength to even knock any of our rooms. He knew if he had to survive, he must wait outside the house for the ambulance to come and dragged himself all the way to the hallway while trying to call all of us; barely heard as his voice was weaker than a dying sparrow.
Maybe it was not his day that day, that’s why I heard the bang on the floor and went outside to see him soaked in blood that he vomited for the last 1 or 2 hours. It was quite a scene— coming outside of the room in the dark in a Terrance stage and seeing him like that, I was surprised not to get a panic attack.
Sometimes I feel like committing suicide takes more than courage. But again, I think what’s the point of calling it an end when you are midway; without seeing through the end of what you are going through— why leave everything behind? That’s not fair. If you die, everything is finished at that point. You never know what happened to them/that for what you did with yourself. No point. If you really wish to die, die for something valuable— perhaps, drown yourself in the love of your loved ones; that kind of death I am talking actually. There’s no shame in it. And the most fascinating part is, that you can die thousands of times that way.