Suicide, says Camus, is brought about when that which has been tolerated for an arbitrary amount of time becomes at once unbearable, or absurd.
Go to work, go home, go to bed: this is the new-old reality in the absence of Bluefish, and I observe the pattern sadly.
I speak not of an internal 'observation,' enumerating day after day after day, but I instead stand outside myself, fully aware of the futility in which I engage.
I have no plans to end my life, but I understand the mindset which plants the seed of the decision. When it appears that one is condemned to an infinite number of repetitions, it is logical to want to break the circle.
Logical? But surely there is no logic in the thinking machine that unplugs itself forever?
(Some) physicists have postulated that the universe is a giant computer, which, when it is approaching its death is able to perform an increasingly large number of steps. At the very point when the 'Big Crunch' occurs, the number of steps is infinite, and so any calculation or rendering is possible.
On the much smaller human scale, what clarity and work would be possible at the moment the synapses act upon the decision to extinguish themselves, assuming that the physicists' view is a) valid and b) applicable in another domain?
How simple to encapsulate the universe! To evaluate and revise it - simplicity itself - when the mind is teetering between being itself and being nothing at all. And this is the logic of suicide: the brief unification of everything and then the void.
