I wonder if perhaps I was truly ruined – not in any spiritual or physical sense, but in another, analogous way.
Finding that I could go through the motions and yet be completely unmoved, wholly detached, was a great shock to me intellectually.Ironically, my detachment to the entire situation made it difficult for me to react in any “real” sense; in fact, my response was to basically carry on in a way that had become quite familiar.
Emotionally I feel almost stunted. I could perhaps attempt to describe myself as mercurial, but I am not wavering between two places.I don’t have two places to waver between.Less like a feather blowing in the wind, I am more like an empty container with a lid sealed shut.It would be more correct to describe myself as autistic rather than anything else.
But maybe that’s not entirely fair.The fact that I am writing this, not out of necessity or intellectual curiosity, but out of genuine fear, shows that I am not absolutely detached. I am still able to recognise and speculate on this state, and by doing so, perhaps I can act on it.
But what if I am unable to change?What if I remain without sword and shield, unwilling to defend myself against the growing threat of apathy and detachment, crippled in solitude?
It seems as though any time someone mentions my Xanga or LJ, I end up sitting for hours and reading through my own old entries.
I go through all the familiar motions -- smiling at funny comments, grimacing at one-liner entries, and of course, thinking "Did I really say that?"
It's funny to look at the different people who have commented, and how this group has evolved and changed as time trundled forward. Some are long gone from commenting, or indeed talking to me at all, and some speak to me very differently (Graham used to think I was quiet).
I woke up early this morning to watch my first full football match in a long time and at half-time, I went back to my room and Facebooked (yes, it's a verb now) to kill time. When I got back downstairs, my dad was watching the game, and it reminded me of old times when he'd come down and watch the games with me, giving the occasional snore and attempting to cleverly disguise it as a cough.
I was hoping to fall asleep again after the game, but here I am, typing away on a medium I didn't think I'd use ever again for anything more than a picture or a paragraph at most.
