Malady

The ennui of my current condition is intolerable. I am possessed by the useless languor of monotony. A detached sluggishness has overcome me, and I find myself wishing for the intensity of emotion. But when rage and the spit of my soul finally come to the fore, I will yearn once more for the repose of boredom. This calm fatality perturbs me, or rather, I feel as if I should be perturbed. Tomorrow, or weeks from now, I might erupt into something else, but right now this hibernation is of the worst kind.

A few days ago, I found that I was removed from myself in a way that is difficult to describe. I was in class taking notes, and for a split second found that my hand was moving at its own will. My hand was a machine having no relation to my inner presence. I had become my own observer in an almost clinical sense. It was a moment of amazement, terror, and utter alienation.

I went to him in a half daze. I needed him to tell me who I was, and to save me from my soul's amnesia. I'd have believed anything, just for the sake of conviction. I'd have made him my faith. I don't know why him. I told him I wanted to cry about nothing. My need for him was perilous. I didn't care. Desperation is when you don't care. I needed someone to drag me out of myself. I couldn't have liberated myself on my own without the horrid feeling that I was indiscriminately defecating my soul on the sidewalk. I couldn't, just couldn't, without him.

But today with my placidity I can do without alot of things, even him. He was only crucial in my moment of need, like how I can suddenly become Christian again during a crisis. Today, I can easily ignore him. Tomorrow I might need him again for my intoxication. The cruelty of my nature frightens and disgusts me.