The only thing that works

If there’s anything I have come to fully understand about myself in the past two or three years, it is that I am almost entirely incapable of feeling genuine emotions – love, hate, joy, bliss, happiness, sorrow, anguish, excitement. If anything, life has just been a mono-emotional experience – grey. Absolutely grey. Grey that is a sublime melancholia, that would hardly register as an emotion if one did not actively search for it.

Perhaps its an existentialist or postmodernist skepticism that has etched its place in my meta-conscious psyche that I cynically and doggedly question the veracity of whatever base emotion I feel at any and every moment to the extent that it basically analyses and then consequently effaces any raw experience of emotion. On a superficial level, I do feel emotions, but it is as if I am estranged from it by an imposed chain-linked fence that feeds a perception that those emotions I perceive are but empty.

The only thing that seems to helps in arousing those archived emotions from its dormant shelves is 40% abv from the cheapest 20cl bottle of High Commissioner from the basement of Peninsula Plaza.

I am emotionally estranged (in an almost guilty fashion) from experience, from my faith, from family, from close friends, from former classmates, from colleagues. And I am terribly sorry that you are reading this if you are reading this. If you ask me if I love my mother, I honestly don’t have an answer for you (and I beat myself up for even venturing into such a vicious thought).

This emotional estrangement has completely dehumanised me. I don’t and I can’t feel empathy, only just a fleeting glimpse of it that I quickly smother out before I am able to reflexively cringe. Empathy, Philip K. Dick posits, is a key defining trait of what is to be human; and I can’t feel it. And perhaps precipitated by this absolute lack of access to empathy and emotions, I feel like I am morbidly and eternally in a perpetual state of unending lethargy. I don’t know how this relates but the existential lethargy bleeds into a sense of worthlessness and mediocrity that I feel best describes my existence.

Reading through all my blog posts and diary entries, all I can sense is a perpetual undercurrent of melancholia, mediocrity and inferiority.

Inferiority. Is it inferiority then that is the foundational centerpiece of this pathetic state of existence? Is my instinctive auto-effacement of emotions then a coping mechanism for this inferiority? What then does this sense of inferiority that I have identified precipitate from? Ego perhaps?

Why then am I such an egoistic animal if that is the foundational problem? Would actively keeping ego in check alleviate this? Whither my emotional experiences that I’ve robbed myself of?

I want to be able to love, to hate, to feel excitement, to feel joy, to feel anguish, to feel gratitude, to feel humour, to feel compassion, to feel passion just as any bloody man in the street. And why can’t I?

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