Why am I so god damn sensitive? I am so sensitive, that I hide my vulnerability. I master a callous veneer that deflects most, if not all, attention thrown my way. My heart aches with every stupid dig. It doesn’t matter who it comes from. It doesn’t matter if I think it’s true, if they think it’s true. Being sensitive means it hurts. And I hate it. It means you react before the insult even lands.
You are acutely aware— the bumbling bee, the radiant rose, the felicitous smile, the downcast eyes: nothing escapes your attention. Intonation resounds like thunder, the slightest misinflection cracks at the window of your awareness. Sensitivity causes a convulsion, an empathetic rescue to remedy the reaction.
I just close my eyes and imagine the various pins and needles penetrating my affections.
A rioting panic wells up in my eyes.
As quickly as the wind changes its course, my mood, my self esteem, just about every confident conviction I hold so close, turns against me. My mind turns inward on itself and begins to ravage all the inadequencies lurking in safe shadows. It seeks them out, festering and plucking and picking at old wounds, and hurls fresh insults. I have to convince myself that I am above it. That the rapacious pillaging of self loathing doesn’t weaken me. It requires work and energy. Far too often I think about killing myself. There. I said it. When times get tough, and my self esteem plummets towards dark depths, my escape is fantasy. But not just any fantasy. Fantasies of death. Death and nothingness. Neutrality. These types of thoughts are typically associated with the psychotic. With the mentally unwell. I have to agree most of the time. But I seem to think it’s perfectly normal to want to kill yourself. You will die anyway. But my death, by any unnatural way (whatever that means), will be presented as an attack on those closest to me, and I resent that. What that means is that I should take time to disengage before I kill myself so that no one will hurt as bad. The abrupt is too cold, too merciless.
I exist in various states.
If you go on living, chances are you won’t be remembered. The tragic is remembered. The world loves to wallow in bliss or tragedy, not in the purgatory in between. That god awful gray area where the mediocre reside. Who could live in such a place? Most people. But they don’t want to know about it. There is nothing there they want to be reminded of.
So they obsess over the other corners of experience. Tradgedy or bliss. My role is to fulfill the tragedy that is their lives. I will kill myself, one day, as an act of definance, of absolute revolt. The idea is more appealing than the actual process, but I assure you, there is a methodology to my madness, to the sick recompense I seek to serve my fellow man. Your aberrations have turned to adulations, and I want to defecate on all the bad deemed good. On lifeless lives.