I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.
Actually, it’s all I’ve been doing lately. Never before have I been more aware of my own consciousness, of my state of being.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m still human. Is it possible to exist while feeling completely detached from humanity?
I’m too full of contradictions. It’s as if there are two mysterious forces pulling me into two separate directions. Which way should I go?
One moment I crave for human connection. I feel thirsty for a glance. An acknowledging nod. A gentle smile. I hunger for conversations. I want my ears to be filled with buzzing sounds to remind me I’m alive. Breathing. Feeling. Existing.
I long to go outside and let the sunshine cocoon me with its warmth, its radiance. I yearn for the sky to open its arms and let the raindrops fall. I want to get soaked in their velvet softness.
The next thing I know, I’m trying to withdraw into my own corner of the universe. I have this overpowering need to be alone. To be left alone.
I want to wallow in self-pity. I want to fall into the abyss of misanthropy. I just want to be immersed in desolation.
Humans suddenly become a nuisance. I don’t want them to look at me. I don’t need them to validate my existense. I dread talking to them, or even simply meeting their eyes. I’m scared of baring my soul and letting them see my vulnerability. I become allergic to sounds. Anything apart from my kind of music is a noise. The honking of horns, the chirping of birds, the slamming of doors – they are enough to drive me mad.
I hate the cheerful glow of the sun. I hate the dampness brought by the rain.
I hate my mundane journey through the intricacies of everyday life.
Should I yield to this melancholy?
Being an obstinate soul, I grit my teeth and suffer the crux of being human.
I let the heartaches, disillusions and disappointments wash over me, bathing me in the paroxysms of agony.
The agony of being alive. The agony of having the capacity to feel.
Sometimes sudden, and often gradual, I feel the pain. First it is only a pang, swift but sure. Then it becomes a twinge, sharp and deep. Later it gives way to an ache, throbbing and insistent.
Malady of the heart? Anguish of the soul?
Must be a little of both.
I know these feelings won’t last. As what this brilliant man said:
There must be the intervening breather once in a while when I can pause and catch my breath. And try to make sense of it all.
I’m going to live for those moments – the glorious in-betweens.