When Does it End Robbie?

 

I was reading an old journal entry recently. I describe myself as being a stranger to my own emotions. I think the idea is of an escapism inherent in observing your own life as if a you are not a participant. It manifests very clearly when I am uncomfortable. Every time I am talked about in the presence of people I do not want to reveal myself to, I default to an acquiescing smile. I might also interject with harmless quips that offer nothing. I can see myself from the outside; I am trying to appear palatable without leaving an impression. I am whatever they want to project on to me. Whatever values they feel most comfortable imputing.

This deep-seated desire to avoid being known (or even perceived) goes back almost as long as I can remember. I have always wished for a measure of anonymity before feeling comfortable with the idea of being myself. It explains, to an extent, my proclivity for running away from excessive familiarity. Not so long ago, I found myself wondering if it made me sad to feel loved. I treated the question as not worth investigation, but not before it reminded me of another question from a loved one: do you not feel joy anymore?

Ennui is a weird emotion. It is cancerous, oppressive, and unbearably light. It lays bare conflicts I have with my sense of self-worth; that I ask myself if I will ever contribute anything of value. That running away at some point has to turn into running towards. That for all the moves I make I keep ending up in the same pit. That my dissatisfaction and despair are borne out of having harboured ideas beyond my station. That I dreamed of a life and personality beyond the strength of my documents. Of having tried to militate – in my own way – against the constraints of a social order I do not identify with. Of having decried a faith I feel politically compelled to hold on to.

The important thing about running, however, is that sometimes you just get to the other side. Sometimes you power through a stitch and notice not one kilometre. Regardless of how I suffer this evening, it will take its course and make way for another. Even my ennui might take flight and land one someone else smiling for today’s hopes and dreams. Not that it will arrest me intellectualizing when I could experience.

There is something to be said for typing into the void.

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