The Emptiness
I lay halfway between sleep and wakefulness, thinking dimly that even so, you would expect there to be a lingering atmosphere of despair in my mind, and yet, somehow, there didn't seem to be. I must have fallen asleep soon thereafter, for the next thing I remembered was the sun hollowing my retinas into specks of sand, and the pain in my forehead which soon followed.
There's no end to how far back you can go, of course, when you're trying to figure out when something started. The search can take you back as far as you let it. But for me, there was no event catastrophic enough to be the start of pratically anything of extreme importance.
But somehow, in spite of myself, here I am, mildly surviving my 19th season.
Memories. I'm not in favor of them, by and large. Not that there aren't some good ones, but on the whole I'd like to simply smother their flames which consume my being. In fact, I have grown quite comfortable without them, as if loneliness and a lack of feeling provide me with a deeper sense of 'self'. After all, I have a life to live, and I have little time to kindle such pleasantries. No, I swallow my feelings, force them down inside myself, where they can feed and grow and swell and expand until I eventually explode, unforgivably, to the utter bewilderment of whoever witnesses such a event. But this is the way of things. This is who I am.
I see suffering every day. Wars and famines are played out before us in our living rooms, and almost every week there are pictures in the news of children and famalies who have suffered through unimaginable loss and horror. You see them looking into a camera, directly at the lens, and knowing what they have been through you expect to see terror or grief in their eyes, yet often there's no visible emotion at all. They look so blank and lifless it would be certianly reasonable to assume they felt nothing. And though I do not for a moment equate what I went through in my life with the suffering of those people, I do remember feeling as they look. I remember the unimaginable effort required to feel anything. It was like being at the bottom of the sea.
I don't understand people. I don't mean that in a arrogant sense-I'm not saying people are incomprehensible because they don't act as I do. I mean it as a statement of fact. I know that no one can truly claim to understand anyone else, but I believe it's a matter of degree. Many people are a great mystery to me, and within these regards, I am too a great mystery to other people. I just don't see how other people justify certian things they do, whether it be to themselves or others. It's a fault of mine, I guess. Or a strength? I am uncertian.
Many of you may be wondering where I am going with all of this, but quite honestly, I cannot say. These are the things that run through my mind when they are allowed to do so. Being comfortable with writing, I am willed to express them.
The emptiness.
-Kevin-
There's no end to how far back you can go, of course, when you're trying to figure out when something started. The search can take you back as far as you let it. But for me, there was no event catastrophic enough to be the start of pratically anything of extreme importance.
But somehow, in spite of myself, here I am, mildly surviving my 19th season.
Memories. I'm not in favor of them, by and large. Not that there aren't some good ones, but on the whole I'd like to simply smother their flames which consume my being. In fact, I have grown quite comfortable without them, as if loneliness and a lack of feeling provide me with a deeper sense of 'self'. After all, I have a life to live, and I have little time to kindle such pleasantries. No, I swallow my feelings, force them down inside myself, where they can feed and grow and swell and expand until I eventually explode, unforgivably, to the utter bewilderment of whoever witnesses such a event. But this is the way of things. This is who I am.
I see suffering every day. Wars and famines are played out before us in our living rooms, and almost every week there are pictures in the news of children and famalies who have suffered through unimaginable loss and horror. You see them looking into a camera, directly at the lens, and knowing what they have been through you expect to see terror or grief in their eyes, yet often there's no visible emotion at all. They look so blank and lifless it would be certianly reasonable to assume they felt nothing. And though I do not for a moment equate what I went through in my life with the suffering of those people, I do remember feeling as they look. I remember the unimaginable effort required to feel anything. It was like being at the bottom of the sea.
I don't understand people. I don't mean that in a arrogant sense-I'm not saying people are incomprehensible because they don't act as I do. I mean it as a statement of fact. I know that no one can truly claim to understand anyone else, but I believe it's a matter of degree. Many people are a great mystery to me, and within these regards, I am too a great mystery to other people. I just don't see how other people justify certian things they do, whether it be to themselves or others. It's a fault of mine, I guess. Or a strength? I am uncertian.
Many of you may be wondering where I am going with all of this, but quite honestly, I cannot say. These are the things that run through my mind when they are allowed to do so. Being comfortable with writing, I am willed to express them.
The emptiness.
-Kevin-