The Sound of Perdition

Sometimes it feels as if the world is just made to make me lose my way. There’s so much around, too much. There is content everywhere. But content is not the right word: entertainment. Things made with the sole purpose of being addicting, of catching my attention, while they are, in fact, empty of any meaningful content.

Perhaps I shouldn’t complain. It’s my weakness after all.

All those books, films, games, music albums, TV shows, videos, Social Network feeds, Sports and ESports, with nothing to say, and yet they make you hold on to them. They’re attractive. They’re so undeniably attractive, and I hate them. Even if you try and refine your taste, even if you specialize in just a small niche of things, they keep trying to suck all your time, all your energies. Actually, the more you specialize, the more time they take.

Most of the times, I believe that, quite apart from my actual taste, I can usually identify when something has a heart and when it is simply a pleasurable, hollow distraction, and yet, I wish I could be more resolute at saying no. I wish I could more readily listen to my soul’s melody rather than the hypnotizing sirens’ tune. All your superficial needs seems satisfied, while your deepest aspirations drown in a sea of wasted time, and your joy, your creativity, your curiosity, your vitality, they all rot and die, forgotten.

The sound of perdition is simply the one that cancels any notes of your own. It seduces you: how exhausted you must be, well, rest your heavy limbs here for a while, shut yourself down and come to sleep in this most comfortable of beds. I can guarantee you’ll never want to get up anymore.

Perhaps I shouldn’t complain. It’s my weakness after all.

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Shame

I’m going through an abysmal phase as far as my motivation, willpower and energy are concerned. I’m somehow keeping up with some of that unending training that never seems to lead anywhere (Voice exercises, guitar exercises, a bit of studying), but apathy is devouring me, and I find myself from time to time, wondering what I used to do with all the time I have.

Of course, there’s always writing, almost a taboo by now: I keep thinking about it everyday and yet it gets farther and farther from me, and I wonder how I could have ever written anything in my whole life when it seems such an impossibility. I had a sort of glimpse of how it could all be different a few weeks ago (I believe having a vivid vision of what things should be like is a fundamental part of getting there), so maybe I should work on that, make it more real for me. Although the only thing I can do in practice, is actually to make myself sit down in front of some paper and think, make myself write whatever comes to mind, basically just hoping it works out, somehow. I’m afraid the only thing it’s going to achieve is making me feel more like a failure. Still, that’s something, right? Rather than just apathy, just nothing, just watching other people from afar and wishing I could do too…

My psychologist called it “creative depression”. It’s basically the fact that feeling bad pushes me to react, to do stuff, to create, that I can turn that negativity into some kind of energy; and obviously it’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, and better than being drained of any and all energies. Which I guess is one of the reasons why I hate escapism so much.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I feel like I’m circling around some issue without really getting there, simply repeating myself.

There’s one episode I wanted to write down, because it seemed somewhat significant: I was writing an email to my best friend, telling her how I was embarrassed to do something that required a lot of social interaction with strangers, but the word “embarrassment” didn’t feel right, and then I instinctively fell back to “I’m ashamed”, and it felt accurate. Only a small part of what I was feeling was embarrassment: the prospect of having to interact with strangers was making me feel ashamed of myself. I felt that my soul was ugly and I didn’t want to expose it, I didn’t want to go out and have others see it, I couldn’t. I couldn’t get to know people because I couldn’t let people get to know me.

That line of thought also leads very easily to escapism and apathy. If you’re so ugly on the inside, you’re going to instinctively try to avoid all the mirrors around you, you’re going to just want to forget about it all. And so, I’ve once again got to the point where the system feeds on itself and perpetuates itself, and can only be interrupted by a clean break, something strong to reverse the tendency.

Yeah, I’m definitely repeating myself.

Loneliness, Functioning and Human Warmth

For all the effort I put into escaping escapism, from time to time I suddenly realize how it has made its way back into my life in subtler forms, as a sort of survival instinct that is so hard to eradicate. Augustine was one of the first to realize that, the more you are self-conscious, the more your rationalizations become subtler, evil becomes thinner, hides deeper, but it never really stops.

Apathy still takes me all too easily, instead of letting me suffer like I should. Maybe that is the reason for my inability to act, to express myself.

I feel lonely. I could have said that at any time during the last several years, but these days it strikes me harder than usual. I realized I spend about 6 and a half days alone every week. Which then leads me to wonder how anyone is supposed to feel ok, how anyone is supposed to ‘work’ within circumstances like my own. At this point I turn to my Nietzschean “Higher men vs. the Herd” line of thought, and realize that I should, I should endure it, I should ‘work’ (function) despite it, I should shine through it. Not to mention those thoughts that reflect on how some truly despicable and stupid human beings have friends, which mean that I somehow don’t deserve them, either because I’m more despicable than them or because I’m clearly missing something that lets them have friends and prevents me from the same.

And so I’m left with two, almost opposite feelings: a profound wish, a crave even, to feel loved, to cuddle with someone, to have sex with someone, to share human warmth not just with words but with the body; and on the other side a mix of stoicism and self-deprecation – stuff like “I clearly don’t deserve it, so I have to earn it first”, “Maybe I don’t have it in me”, “I have to endure and make do without it, shine through it” and maybe someday, in that future that never comes and never will. And when I can’t negate either, that turns into profound dissatisfaction and a bleak outlook on the future, and inaction.

Perhaps it will always be a mystery to me, how some people tell me they struggle to understand certain things that seem so clear to me, and yet I fail to understand such a supposedly simple thing as how people get to know other people and make friends. Here’s another not-quite-contradiction: I hate and despise the vast majority of people just as I crave their company, their touch and their warmth – not of everyone, admittedly, just enough, just 2 or 3, to keep the loneliness away.

There’s one thing I know for sure: in these years characterized by failure to reach one’s goals, dissatisfaction, depression, self-hate and “not-enoughness”, my best friend – the owner of that o.5 day per week of my life – is the only thing that keeps me alive, sane, and sometimes happy and thankful. She makes me feel loved, and yes, I still think I don’t deserve it, but somehow she sees through that and she still does make me feel that way. She’s the only one who does.

But the feeling leaves soon, about a day after her, and I go back to normal. Still, those few hours that she gives me, they feel like freedom. They feel like hope. And I wonder whether, if I had a bit more of that, I couldn’t then overcome so many of the difficulties that keep me down, that keep me from going from though to action, that keep me listening to that voice that says “You’re not good enough, you don’t deserve anything”. I wonder…