The Dhaka Break Up Diary

I’m disconnected from my city. Like a long distance relationship, or a secret affair. My city can not see me because her husband has come home. And now me and her, we wait. We wait until the danger goes away. I sneak out at 12am, every night. To catch a glimpse of my city. To have a secret 2 minute affair with Dhaka.

This is a tragedy, a romantic tragedy. Sort of like a break up. And I’m not taking it well.

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I’ve alway been neck deep into this dystopia of a planet. And I’ve loved it. Somehow smoking in a CNG, running to catch a bus or wrapping my arms around someone’s waist in a rickshaw, made me feel free.

10 years, that’s how long my love affair with this city had been. Some days I’d like to believe I even had a hand in building it too with all the pennies I spent here and all the songs I sang (yelled) sitting by the footpath. This city’s gonna break my heart. This city’s gonna love me then leave me alone.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll live to grow old (if it was up to me I would not since- “Mr. Punchline. He’ll outlive god trying to have the last word”. I’d stay immortal). Sometimes I wonder if I’ll live to grow old and If I do, will I be able to say “I built this city”.

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But for now, all I feel is a bond. Mortal coils to the earth, to the dirt, to the sweat and the smoke. to the city. A city I’m disconnected from. I’m disconnected from my city.

For someone who loves the dirt, this is a tragedy. A romantic tragedy. I’m disconnected from my city. Like a long distance relationship, or a secret affair. My city can not see me because her husband has come home. And now me and her, we wait. We wait until the danger goes away. I sneak out at night, 12am. To have a secret 2 minute affair with Dhaka.

A romantic tragedy. Sort of like a break up. And I’m not taking it well.

I quit smoking. I used to be a “one packet a day atleast” man. I am also. Severely depressed. Well that’s what the online tests say. Bunch of stupid little questions that declared that I have an IQ of 132, and I have a thing called a dark triad and I have delusion of grandeur, external locus of identity, and internal locus of control. I don’t feel 132 nor do I feel all those locus-phokus anything. What I do feel though is the fact that I am. Severely depressed. Bollocks!

Just to be clear I am not self destructing. I’ll put a quote here, “Taking your own life. Interesting expression, taking it from who? Once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everyone else. Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it.” It’s a pretty interesting quote. It means our lives belong to someone else. Someone has bought us, but by what currency?

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Love. That’s what. It’s something that doesn’t make sense to me. And no it’s not just a cocktail of hormones. It’s a much greater stimuli. It’s powerful enough to cause you pain and happiness, sadness and anger, tunnel visions and motion sickness. It will wake you up in the middle of the night and make you ask yourself, “where will I find love like that again?”

The other day I read somewhere that a researcher is claiming that happiness should be classified as a mental health anomaly. Richard P. Bentall of the Liverpool University notes that it is a statistically abnormal psychological phenomenon that is associated with a range of cognitive abnormalities. Happiness should be included in future editions of major diagnostic manuals under the name “major affective disorder, pleasant type,” Bentall says. Furthermore, research has shown that happy people have inaccurate cognitive biases, such as overestimating their control over the environment, giving unrealistically positive evaluations of their performance, and lacking even-handedness when comparing themselves to others.

Summary is, you are not supposed to be happy. It’s not your natural state. Happiness turns you into a blithering idiot. An idiot that lives under blissful oblivio. The only reasons we don’t consider happiness as a mental health disaster like we should because of what? The positive emotion? That’s dopamine.

I’m pretty sure if we looked at love, we would realise monogamous romantic love is also a mental health disease.

So love, that’s what’s supposed to make us not self destruct? Love the abnormality? So if not love then what else is there? Why should we not have the right to die? Why don’t I have the right to my own life? What father, what state, what god decides when it’s convenient for me to die?

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Let me quote reddit, “What’s selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence.” I understand why people kill themselves, and I don’t think I could ever damn someone for it. Eventually you start to think that it’ll never end, and you’re too anxious to ask anyone to help you, and it feels like no one listens or understands. You feel like shit, but you know that it isn’t justified and that others have it worse. You feel weak and helpless. I did. Trust this, though: there are people who do care. Some people will pretend, or ignore, or joke, or hate you for confiding in them, but there are people who would give anything to help you. Forcing someone to live without reason is selfish, but letting them die without trying to help or find a reason to live (and thinking yourself a saint for your “selflessness”) is disgusting.

Fuck calling suicide an “easy way out” or a “merciful end”, it is a desperate, clawing escape from a malaise of worthlessness and despair the only way left: not out nor deeper, but completely giving up on trying to make it worthwhile. It isn’t shameful nor humanitarian, it is the only way that people can find to make their shitty life stop hurting. Sometimes it really is a mercy, but providing someone with this mercy isn’t venerable, it’s a somber and haunting reminder of how lucky one is to have a purpose so valuable that it is worth suffering for.

You know what the truly selfish act is? To make your loved one go through an entire existence of suffering just because you don’t know what you would do without them, because of your love, because of your abandonment issues, because you don’t want to be associated with a suicidal human being and, worst of all, because you don’t want your investment wasted. Yes dear south asian parents, I am talking to you.

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I have something called a dark triad. Narcissism, Psychopathy and Machiavellianism. Well that’s what the online tests say. It’s infuriating. I get infuriated a lot now a days. Like a tail-on-fire infuriape. It’s not the narcissism or the psychopathy that annoys me, it’s the Machiavellianism. How dare these online algorithm assign the most primitive and unintelligent trait to my being. It’s almost as insulting as being called a sociopath. It’s an insult to my personal ethics.

I’ve always been, just like the entirety of my generation, depressed. I have usually drowned this with work and weekends. Purpose and people. It used to be addiction. Substance and affairs (both terrible kind of addictions). But then it became work and “chic consumerism”. I was working myself to death. “Work until depression gets replaced with exhaustion” (!!!)- that kinda utter garbage mindset. As for the weekends, I didn’t stay home. I go out. It’s like a need. I’ve been indoctrinated into thinking that not going out there to actively force happiness to appear in our lives and not being beneficial/productive to society- is a sin. It is not. We should try to do our part, but it is ok if we are physically, emotionally or financially strong enough to do it. Either ways, point is. I don’t stay home. I was trying to plug this giant all consuming black hole inside me with growth percentages, and profit margins, expensive restaurants and leather shoes that costs as much as someone’s one month’s salary.

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Because I’ve always been scared of what will happen if I stay home. Scared to be alone with my thoughts. Locked in my room. Finally face to face with this “thing” I’ve been living with since 2010. It’s not a blackhole though now that I think about it. It’s a, bunch of questions. Kinda like those online IQ tests I sat for. A bunch of mundane questions that hide some horrid unseen reality underneath.

What if I spend my entire life like this, being unproductive? Is that so bad? What if I never achieve anything? How to save this planet? How fix her people? Why go on? What’s after this life? What if there is nothing? What a waste that would be.

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Darling earth, wish I was bigger, stronger, smarter. Richer, more powerful. More accomplished and more… But alas, I am crippled. Crippled by existential dread and birthright. I wish I could fight for you, and all the children of earth.

To sway just like
It was friday night
And all the lights
Will blind me dry
My lullaby
Is your sigh
And i can feel it
When you cry

I wish i could leave you my love
But my heart is a mess.

Dear Dhaka, I am breaking up with you.

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