I often wonder what it’s like to be you, the real you. And sometimes I wish I could be you, just for a moment – as I’d go insane if it prolonged. Just to catch a glimpse of how it feels to be you. How it feels… not to feel a damn thing. I really want to know how sweet is the taste of not caring about your peers, of seeing folks only through utilitarian lenses, of obsessing over your sole self while putting aside any attachment, promise, friendship, and loyalty. Or how bitter.
For a very short while I wish I knew what voluntary autism means, entwined with perfect indifference towards both joy and sadness. How’s the view of only my obsessions, of only my self-pity, of only my half-hearted, of only my apathy. Of me, and me again. The hell with everybody else, no matter how I once regarded them, or what they meant for me, or how we related.
And, for a blink of an eye, I’d impersonate your selfishness and delusional behavior, deceiving words and short term memory. I’d embrace your convenient amnesia and lack of sincerity. I’d seek that comfortable place where sloth, lust and irresponsibility blend best with unconcern, opportunistic dependencies and unconstructive complain.
No more than that, just for a moment do I want to experience being you. Understanding might help. Otherwise, it would be just another perverse curiosity. Does it taste so good, since you dwell in this hurtful state of mind? Is not feeling so empowering? Is total control such a serenity bringer?
Or did I get this all wrong, and a sorrowful rage lies beneath, root bound to your soul? Is this the mask you hid your anguish behind, and you did it so well that the character became the actor? It’s not sweet, nor bitter; it just is, eating you alive, killing you inch by inch? Yes, do tell, how does it feel to be dead inside?
Just for a moment: how does it feel not to feel?
(22 mai 2018)