Endless
Days pass, weeks, months, years. Ever the same, never unique. Will I ever be someone that I can be proud of? I live, in some ways, but it doesen't make me feel. It is as if there was a filter between me and the world, a filter that washes away all the real of the impressions that are meant for my sences.
This is not new to me, it has always been like this. I remember for instance when I was very young, some kids picked on me (sometimes) or some one in my class. I'd always help them, or talk back if it was me, but I never felt anything doing those things.
I'm not a socaiopat, I do things because I feel them to be right, or know them to be right from remembering previous feeling, but most things don't move me in any serious way. I guess people would say that I am collected or cool. I guess they would be right.
Time though, it eats at me sometimes. It's not like it moves me, not at all. I'm not easily movable. It's more of a grinding, nagging kind of feeling, like a rash, like a cog-wheel not oiled, like a person following you just out of you field of view.
The problem I have with time is not that it constantly advances towards the inevitable death of me, although I am dead afraid of that. It is that it does so without making me feel it.
This is not new to me, it has always been like this. I remember for instance when I was very young, some kids picked on me (sometimes) or some one in my class. I'd always help them, or talk back if it was me, but I never felt anything doing those things.
I'm not a socaiopat, I do things because I feel them to be right, or know them to be right from remembering previous feeling, but most things don't move me in any serious way. I guess people would say that I am collected or cool. I guess they would be right.
Time though, it eats at me sometimes. It's not like it moves me, not at all. I'm not easily movable. It's more of a grinding, nagging kind of feeling, like a rash, like a cog-wheel not oiled, like a person following you just out of you field of view.
The problem I have with time is not that it constantly advances towards the inevitable death of me, although I am dead afraid of that. It is that it does so without making me feel it.
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