Literary Suicide

In response to a question posed by a friend, I had this to say:

 I think any response to your question will be inadequate in light of its decontextualisation from the possible circumstances surrounding a case of suicide. At most, we can say that sometimes it isn't right to attribute an act of suicide as being selfish. In the case of the suicide of the Singaporean teenager, we are completely capable of making overarching statements regards the circumstances surrounding her death, but at the same time, we are also able to realise that whatever rationalisations we can conceive of, they always have a tendency to inadvertently trivialise the situation; that the methods we somehow employ in making sense of her situation can never quite fully comprehend the pain and suffering she had to go through. I think this sense of impotence when dealing with any kind of experience which might be called subjective can be attributed to the tangential lives we are condemned to be living. Just like numbers on a number line, '2' can never really get to '3'; the chasm between them is infinity; '2' gets closer to '3' but never any closer. And so when faced with the absurdity which Life can sometimes throw at us, we can either take it heroically like Camus's Sisyphus or we can choose to abdicate our responsibilities and discard the boulder. Ever so often, from our vantage point from where we roll our boulders inexorably uphill, we see our friends giving up, throwing in the towel. We would like very much to lend a hand, but our hands can never quite reach them from our isolated vertices, and so the most we can do is to cheer them on and hope they somehow receive our messages and pick themselves up again.