I think I’m spinning out of control - spinning and spinning perpetually, so dizzyingly fast through a maze. A maze with only one path, one trajectory, yet one I can’t decipher because I’m so terribly anarchic that I can only stand witness as I spiral closer towards the depths of pure insanity. I used to think I could control myself, that my misanthropic bouts were simply phases I consciously brought upon myself. I don’t know why, maybe to entertain myself and to keep me interested in myself because I couldn’t possibly care less about the things and the people around me. Why should I? It’s a world of varied and distant minds, many just like mine racing through the ceaseless ins and outs and dos and don’ts of our daily existence.
Thoughts, as individual entities are perhaps worth my interest and care, but for some reason a society of collective thoughts simultaneously working on the same big problems and individually working on banal issues is somewhat akin to sitting on a bed of nails. All these nails, all with the capacity to pierce and penetrate – yet together neutralise each other, leaving an effect that is insignificant and oh so horribly impartial. Why should I entertain myself with the mind-numbing pointlessness of the outside? I’ll live my own, my earth is my mind. My mind is where I reside.
It’s occurred to me though that this dangerously cynical mentality may not just be a conscious effort to disengage from an existence plagued by banality. Maybe this is who I am, so horribly self-centred that the mere notion of an external surprises and shocks me. Why do I become so shaken by my capacity to ‘feel’ things – to feel excited or happy or hurt by the things that happen around me? Pain is multiplied by the revelation of it even occurring to me and therefore my inability to really handle it. Things shouldn’t hurt me, no, not if I’m so disengaged with what happens around me. Excitement is exacerbated extraordinarily by the startling understanding that I can affect change in a world so overrun by individual thought, yet at the same time trudging so definitely towards a shared and obvious trajectory.
People wonder why I get so worked up, this is why.
Every day, I’m on a knife’s edge – on the brink, the narrow dividing line between pure insanity and normalcy. I usually find that line and stay on the right side of it; for the most part I think I’m normal, I think I appear normal despite some peculiarities. But tonight I lost it, not so obviously perhaps, but I crossed that line wilfully and I couldn’t bring myself back. Everything that came my way and crossed my sight was a parasite that needed to be crushed. I wanted to crush the wall – pummel it with my fists leaving horrid, yet satisfying red grind marks on my knuckles. The entire world around me, the air in front of me was like an echo chamber, just beckoning me to yell louder and louder for no reason other than to pierce the surroundings with my horrid and unwelcome appearance. A butter knife transformed from a kitchen utensil to a brilliant weapon. My view of the people around me changed, my comrades and acquaintances reshaped and remoulded into props, symbols of the very things that I despise so much. Every action and every move they made, a provocation – daring me to hate, daring me to jump into the deathly spiral I’m constantly standing at the very edge of.
Sometimes, most times my opinion of people’s presence is neutral – a fact that is neither satisfying nor irritating but one of those things that I can learn to ignore and take for granted. But other times the touch of a human or merely sharing the same air space as another human angers and repulses me. Being in close proximity to other people makes feel a very real sense of claustrophobia, the touch of a person makes me cringe, and sometimes an embrace from another human being makes me want to shrivel up, leaving my bodily impression in the mould of my clothing whilst I cry and weep from the pure horridness of the entire ordeal. But then again sometimes I don’t mind them hugs, other times I might even like them.
I didn’t use to be like this, I used to be the kind of person that you could, I guess, like. I used to be the kind of person who could also like other people in less fickle and more genuine ways other than infatuation or romance. I suppose you could say I used to have friends, but I don’t really any more. But then again as my misanthropic worldview dictates, I don’t particularly want them either. I didn’t use to be like this, but something changed, somewhere along this path I messed up tremendously and I became this. The good me is long gone. Don’t try to find him, you never will. But you might find fragments.