Feeling nothing
I’ve been searching for an explanation for this flatness. Then I realised I just don’t feel much at the moment. I hadn’t noticed how unusual that is for me. My imagination was always fired by intensity of feeling. Terror, despair, grief, longing… any of those will birth a good story. The thing is, to engage with a story – whether it’s your own or one someone else has written – I think it has to describe an experience that, on some level, you’re interested in living. Perhaps I’m just not into the same stories I used to be.
The thing that worries me a little is that I don’t seem to be into any stories. I don’t relate to any of the characters; I can’t put myself in the scene. Somehow I find it impossible to imagine having any sort of close interaction with anyone. I can’t imagine a lover, or a friend, or even an interesting enemy.
Oh, it’s not that my life is full of the real thing. No. I still have my projects and lists, my chores and errands. A few friends scattered here and there. And my sick days and a rare few good days. I’m getting stronger. I’m not sure why. Not exactly better, just stronger. Better able to cope.
I wonder if this is what health is. Being practical, emotionless, unattached; to have no dark issues that need exploring, no neuroses with twisted stories to tell.
On the other hand this might all be some kind of incredibly boring suppression. Perhaps I’ve somehow walled off that wild garden of thorny night-flowering things. I’m waiting at a bus stop in a brown suit with a briefcase, 8:00am. I’m not so foolish as to say I miss having lunch with my demons, because if they’ve left town, they may well be planning something devastating.
Winter finished a month and a half early this year, and this August feels more like October. Perhaps some season of my life is ending sooner than expected too. But god, at the moment it’s driving me nuts. All I can do is work, because nothing feels enjoyable. Somehow, I’m more truly a hermit than ever. I’m one with no dreams of anything else.