How To Handle Being Passively Suicidal and Aggressively Hopeful: An Inaccurate Guide

On the dissonance of holding dread and hope in one heart

They say children raised in poverty develop a scarcity mindset, a feeling that they need to cling to what they have because eventually it will all disappear. I've developed that, but with my years lived. It feels like these twenty-something years are too many. Like I have out-lived a predetermined expiration date and, at any second, this time given out of pity would run out. That I would die. And the current state of the world is only propagating this peculiar state of mind.

Which begs the classic and redundant philosophical question: Is life worth more or less as it grows shorter?

I know anyone older reading this or hearing people my age talk like this would be very confused. Sometimes, offended or enraged. When I expressed these thoughts at a philosophy club a while ago, the moderating professor looked amused even. He was a man with graying hair and watery eyes, he said "You do know that you haven't even seen much yet, right?"

Then and there, I agreed. I'm still a student, haven't felt the pressures of work life. I haven't been responsible for another soul, barely even responsible for myself. I agreed and still do; I have not seen the hardships his weathered hands and wrinkles spoke off.

But I've stood at the sideline and seen a plethora of things.

Despite not being the one amidst the flames, I have stood so close that I could feel the heat singe my brows. The world was always in flames. A global pandemic. An economic crisis. A war brewing in my home country. Tasteless WW3 outfit jokes.

And those were only the things I witnessed upon leaving my teen years behind. As a child of first generation immigrants, I stood with my back to the flames for years as I my parents stared into the inferno and shielded me from it. I watched as they did their best to teach me how to handle the burns.

Even last year, when we were about to book a flight back home only to hear that an armed conflict broke out and the first location targeted was the airport, I wasn't quite in the flames myself. But it felt like I could've been. Should've been. All it could’ve taken was deciding on a flight a few days earlier to get trapped in a conflict that would span over two years. A conflict that displaced 13 million people. I could have been another statistic, one shift of the matrix to the left and I would have not been here today.

Yet, I still don't know the answer. Is life worth more now after such a mocking encounter with death and despair?

I am indecisive. The utter need to screw it all and live it all is all consuming. The ideas of marrying earlier than is honestly wise and the crippling need to graduate as early as possible stem from a hope so aggressive it hurts. A hope that I might manage to squeeze as much life as possible in the few extra seconds I get. So I laugh loudly, love fiercely and never hesitate to say yes.

But late at night, after an evening spent dissociating to the progressively darker headlines, I wonder if all this is even worth it. I skip the gym class I was excited about, cancel meetings with friends and spend the night wondering why I was the one to survive. Why me?

But I pass out at some point in the night, wake up to a blaring alarm and get dressed. I smile at the security on my way to my shift, make small talk with the nurses, wave at the toddler in the grocery store. I still don't hesitate to say yes.

As long as I am alive I will live, but when things end, whether now or in a hundred years, it wouldn't matter. The ending wouldn't matter to me. I just hope the story along the way was one that I enjoyed.

The world may be burning, but I'm begging you, please, say yes.

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Dear reader,

If this essay cracked something open in you, then I’ve done my job. I hope it released something you’ve been gripping onto too tight. Summon a friend with the share button if the weight of this one is too much to carry alone, or hit reply to lean on me.

This essay was meant to be the fifth and last installment in the weekly essays scheduled to celebrate the launch of Postcards From The Abyss. But shifting to every-other-Friday would mean missing you more than I care to admit — so I’ll keep writing to you every week.

Until then, rest while you can. Next Friday’s letter will be waiting, and you’ll need your strength to meet it.

If you’re reading on the app, don’t forget to like and restack.

Until then,

Rain