I smoke my cigarette silent. I know it is a cliché thing to say, but there’s a lot of content in silence.

“I want to kill myself.”

Your sentence, uttered what it feels like half an hour ago, expands and fills up every volume of empty space, penetrates to our bones. I want to tell you that things will be okay. But honestly, I have no idea. Odds are, things won’t be alright like before these events happened – I can’t tell you that you will be happier in the future. I am not – things didn’t necessarily get better for me – they more or less stopped bothering me because reality continued. Is it not worse, if I told you, instead of empty comforting words like “things will be okay”, that I said “you’ll get used to it – to the void, to the loneliness, to giving up?”.

Yes, sometimes it’s better to say nothing.

I never got over these thoughts of suicide either, so wouldn’t be hypocritical for me to tell you they will go away? In my silence, you know that I have nothing to offer. I wish I could help you, make those who hurt you stop, shelter you from pain, but who am I to do any of these things? All I can muster up is:

“Reality sucks.”

You smile. What else can you do? You know I can’t make miracles. No one can.

I want to tell you I will miss you if you go. But isn’t this egoistical? So my sentence hangs in the air. You are finishing your cigarette and keep looking at me, searching for some meaning. I wish I was one of those people who know exactly what to say – who can give a hug at the right time – I mean, sometimes nonsense, unverified statements work for people.

I stare at the concrete and feel this bubbling up inside me. Something seems so absurdly comical in this exact moment. The awkwardness, the inability to connect, to act like a human being, despite our meat suits. It’s all so absurd. Suddenly, I start chuckling and you look at me horrified.

“Dude, yea, it’s gonna suck, maybe for a while, maybe for a long time. But that is obvious, right? When bad shit happens, you feel shit inevitably. It fucking sucks to think about death and to feel alone. But that’s part of being a person no? I dunno, I can’t say nice things, like, we both know, life is completely pointless and all, that’s not new at all. But, in the end, even if meaningless, there’s exciting shit happening in your life – stuff that you love doing, even if it’s work or whatever. And I guess that’s worth something. Death is nice and plain. But since when are you into nice and plain things?”

There is a silence after this stupid potato philosophy. I am tired, you are tired – but your smile opens up.

“Ehe, that was truly terrible.”


Highly biased views I

#1: ‘Whatever, nothing matters.’
#2: ‘If nothing matters why are you so into things?’
#1: ‘To avoid realising things don’t matter at all, call it denial.’

Recently I read that over 40% of graduate students in Berkeley University had reported feelings of depression, 10% thoughts of suicide [1]. This is not very surprising. I further recall reading a couple months about the suicide rates per occupation: in 5th there are the engineers, in 8th the mathematicians, computer scientists and statisticians. [2]

Empirically I notice a lot of my friends, extremely smart people, are extremely depressed.

Last week I ended up, during lunch, in a conversation about the toll that can academia take in personal life and mental health – in particular, the need to move from country to country to get the perfect CV, coupled with the realisation that, after 5 or 10 years, you have been swimming in a tiny, drying up puddle instead of an oasis, plus the impossibility of truly disconnecting from work. These reasons sounded reasonable.

There’s another hypothesis I discussed with a good friend of mine in the past: that people with high analytical intelligence tend to be bad at dealing emotions. This is because they might prioritize rational thought over emotional one, even in areas where rationality might not be the most appropriate tool (talk about tastes or volitions).

Combine the unwillingness to accept emotions as real inputs for decision making or action orienting with the pressure of needing to have a CV that is as competitive as possible, containing reputable institutions and plenty of first author papers, no half-a-year gaps or deviation from your academic career, and you start understanding that mental hygiene might not come off as a priority in academia.

I think the impact is real. Books tailored towards leadership will tell you, tongue in the cheek, that any decision is better than no decision. Imagine that, taking a decision without any proof or evidence, without analyzing every possible scenario – how ridiculous! Yet, the very stupid, nonsensical actions and decisions I have seen came from smart people. Somehow, empirically, I observe that extremely ‘rational’ people* don’t seem to make good life choices in their personal lives, if you don’t hold the fact that in real life there’s no reproducibility, model reduction nor a control experiment running on parallel.

It’s counter intuitive, on the one hand, I spend so much time attempting to perfect my analytical skills to make predictive models of reality, while it appears that more and more, I forget how to actively participate and interact with reality.



*: Observational biases.

The eternal pursuit of the myth of Aristophanes

After a ‘break up’ there is all this sexual frustration that masturbation alone does not satisfy. I watch porn, but soon enough it spirals towards this category of weird stuff which is no longer arousing, but rather almost physics and biology defying.

‘What am I doing with my life?’

Then it comes calling up close friends for support, and realising it’s been a while since I found time to see them despite having spent the last weeks with someone I just met. I realize I could have been a better friend.

The hours waiting for a text dilate, as if I happened to find myself hanging out at the edge of a black hole. If my heart were a black hole, would it be because it consumes everything which comes close enough, or because no light shines out of it?  I think about breaking the ice and telling this person of this absurd image – they might find it funny and I can’t stand the silence.


Phase two is exercising. It’s hard to overthink when you are gasping for air in the running tracks.

I saw them recently. It was okay, they were okay. We laughed, whatever, it was fine. Maybe my heart is, indeed, a black hole. I understand sometimes the timing is just not right. All my logic tells me that dwelling in certain thoughts is hardly of any help, but I can’t help wondering what is it that I am missing.

In the evening I sat myself down and let some emotions condense into something concrete. It’s been a while since I worked in a new piece. This one is called ‘Fill me up‘ and it depicts the moment leading up to a kiss. Both subjects are missing parts of their bodies. It is a reference to this myth by Aristophanes, that humans had originally four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces. The story tells that Zeus, as a punishment for humanity’s pride, split humans in half, thus creating humans with only one set of genitalia, forever longing for their other half; the other half of their soul. I feel like often, we are just missing something, hoping to find someone to alleviate the void.

I know, if only I loved myself a bit more, I would be less tempted to find salvation in others. I wonder if this could have been the case too, that if they too loved themselves a bit more, they would have believed someone was willing to accept their incompleteness.

On math and the mundane

I firmly reject the idea of destiny – but it’s hard to believe all this was by chance.




There are crowds and crowds of people standing around as we try to make our way through the other side of the city. Züri Fäscht is a festival that occurs every 3 years. Around 10 pm fireworks rip through the skies to the beat of pop music and, like radiative colourful Xanax, everybody quiets down and observes these explosions. I heard someone say that it’s estimated that around 2 million people will have been in Zürich this weekend – that’s almost 7x the amount of people living in this city, usually.

We make our way through the static crowd because we have no interest in these fireworks though. In the most dense areas, as we push and shove these fleshy statues around us, I distract myself and think of percolation theory. It’s the study of diffusion of a medium through a pourous material – think of water passing through a sponge. These thoughts keep my mind occupied from the smell of weed, sweat and people.

We finally reach the destination we intended to reach, only to find our friends are long gone. Worth mentioning that double or triple number of phones trying to connect to the cellular networks inevitably lead to an overload and thus, the network is mostly down. Meanwhile, my friend got high and still wants to dance and I have been working non stop for two months, so I’ll take any social contact.




It’s 12:30 and it appears there is a second round of fireworks. I don’t understand the fascination people have with these events. Soon enough, the lights from the stands and carnival go out in anticipation of the upcoming show.

Everything quiets down briefly only to be interrupted by three explosions, and in a few seconds, the sky is full of colored lights, like a flaming huge golden dandelion.

I feel something.

As fireworks keep shooting up in the sky and blasting, colouring the sky and quickly vanishing, I imagine myself as one of these specks of light – quickly ebbing away, leaving only a small trace of smoke, which eventually diffuses. Is this a metaphor for human existence? The colours are so full, so beautiful, so violent that I feel tears forming in my eyes. Everything is dark and all eyes are carved in the sky, so I let them roll down. Life is so breathtakingly beautiful sometimes. I keep thinking I am over it and that I am ready to go – but then I catch a whiff of its perfume, a sight of its colour and I’m pulled back in – I’m again completely in love with life, trapped. Like a child that is overwhelmed with emotion, I am standing here, looking at this symphony of colours, teary eyed. Let these sparks be a memory of all those who existed, who have come and gone. There are so many of them and each individual one is just a bright tiny dot that eventually wanes off.

What if all my rebellion boils down to the fear of fading away, quietly, just like one of these lights?

work-in-progress fiction essays from ‘On math and the mundane.’

Stoic kind of break up

It has been a while since things got this heavy. I always knew there was an easy and quick fix to these lack of, or existence of overwhelming feelings but lately it has become the only option. I think I don’t have it in me – this love for life that I am often reminded others seem to have. Don’t get me wrong, everything is great. My life is great. I am probably happy.

But it’s not captivating. It has never been captivating. Art, mathematics, robotics and machine learning have been strong things which prevented me to think about the inevitable end. As long as I felt I could do something relevant, it was okay. However, my thoughts are currently consumed by reality. I can’t focus on the abstract or ideas. I am pulled from lines of code to thoughts about the mundane: people, myself, past occurrences. I am another sack of meat consuming resources unable to appreciate anything. I hate it. Reality is poisonous, and my lungs are filling up with it.

Somebody told me recently: ‘You should keep doing it as long as you are having fun. Otherwise, it’s a steep price to pay.’ On the topic of doing a PhD versus working in industry. Same goes for life tho, doesn’t it? The price is even higher. Combine the man hours that everybody has spent on you, all the shit you have used up, the years of therapy you might have, unwillingly, put people through. Everybody’s existence comes with a steep price. People often say suicide is a selfish action, but isn’t it staying here for the sake of it greedy?

I used to think, when I was younger, that all I needed was love. But I have actually been incredibly blessed throughout my life. I have met amazing people, great friends, people who truly loved me. I have too, loved people. I never though I would have been able to connect with so many people and feel such things. I have had so many opportunities and great things have happened. I am so grateful for everything and this is, in a way, what makes it so wasteful. In the end, there was always this lack of something – call it love for life or survival instinct. There’s no fix for this.

Last night I made the decision that I want to leave as soon as I am finished. I am done overstaying my welcome, let’s treat this as a work contract: implement a decent idea and go. No hard feelings. It will be a fun ride as long as it lasts.

Not a love story.

I get it. I get why people are – in one way or another – desperately searching for connections. I get it, why people do all sorts of crazy things for love. Life is so terribly lonely, boring and at times, unbearably unpleasant.

M asked me: Does it make you less lonely, when you sleep with them? Or does it make you feel more like a man? The moment you both are a simple connected object – are you less lonely then?

Her unfocused eyes – staring at me. We are intoxicated. Am I less lonely now?

I saw the girl at the pool, again. My calculations are probably correct – she had her period last week. Every four weeks or so, she disappears for a week. Otherwise, she’s always there on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I slept with M again. She’s a nice girl. She thinks she knows too much. I think she’s still a kid. She thinks she ought to feel as much pain as possible – that this will numb her for the future – but I fear she will physically break. She falls in love with anyone who gives her attention. But hey, who am I to judge when it plays alright for me?

Her warm scalp against my palm – right after we merged into one – feels too hot. I don’t think I could ever love her – she feels too real. I would rather she left now.

The girl from the pool, thought. She’s an empty vessel, thin white skin. She could be anyone I want – smart, funny, innocent. I think I love her the more I see her, her mannerisms, the way she tip toes her way into the locker rooms, wrapped on her pink towel.

The moment I’m about to come, all sorts of thoughts scream in my mind: Sometimes I think I’m close to loving M. So close, so close… So… Close. Just one second more. But as I purge into her I am taken by a familiar feeling of disgust – like I can watch myself from the outside, and here I am, with a limp dick against her thigh, red faced, hovering over this girl I will never love.


The existence beyond closed doors

In my home country there is not enough space to bury everyone. What is done in cemeteries is usually: either the defunct is buried for a limited amount of years (from 5 to 10) and afterwards the bones are moved to a shelf like structure for bones, or the defunct along with the coffin is directly put into a big drawer which stacks several of these drawers and remain there, undisturbed. A posh outdoors granite morgue, if you want.

Recently visited someone in one of these large drawers. In this corridor, there are about 250 of these slots. The door of the drawer is made of granite. Around 1.5 centimeters thick granite. There are 3 dark holes of around 4 centimeters diameter, which theoretically allow you to peep into the drawer. Inside lives a sealed coffin and inside that coffin, the remains of a human being.

For a few years, every now and then we buy some new flowers, clean the drawer’s door, look at the growing population of defunct people filling these drawers. We all know what is there, but I rarely think about what is really beyond those three black holes.

The realist part of me tells me, in a very blunt tone that there’s a mummified corpse beyond the door, the smell is probably nauseating, at best, and the environment bacteria ridden. But that’s not interesting. The interesting part is the 1.5 centimeters of granite with three holes can, in a way, erase the existence of whatever is beyond that closed door.

Like when we both close our doors after a long discussion, you ceased to exist as a person and only the contents of the conversation stay with me. To personify you, I have to consciously think about you closing your door, leaning your body against it, perhaps thinking about what I said or looking at your phone.

Mostly I go through life without thinking about what is behind closed doors. Thinking about it fucks with my brain. Rejecting solipsism seems obvious – but to hold the premise that other people are also complex conscious beings is not something which comes natural to me. When I start thinking about other people as real people, I start finding interactions less strange, to understand certain actions which can be lazily interpreted as pure evil or douchery.