Emotional Enema, Table 2?

The days keep ticking by and with every passing second I find a myriad of emotions to sort through. Things I’d thought sufficiently stuffed down and reasonably well enough forgotten. Instead I’m left to manage my way through overwhelming guilt for actions I undertook and set in motion while blinded by immutable hate and disdain. In addition I’m left deciding if I’m capable of connecting with anyone. The great practical joke being that while espouse the importance of cultivating and making long lasting relationships work by investing yourself in the people you encounter. I’m left burying myself behind layer after layer of emotional armor as a means of staving off the hurt that I find inevitably comes from my investment in people.

Too often it becomes far too convenient for those I let in, those chosen few who have become confidants, to simply pack up and leave when the association proves slightly more taxing than simply offering passing acknowledgements. The self absorbed, lackadaisical behavior so easily exhibited by so many is sickening. I think I’ve finally reached the paramount of my disgust with the dregs of humanity. People too concerned with their agendas and furthering of events to accomplish their goals that they ignorantly destroy others to see their will done. I’m guilty of the sin in a way. My arrogance and pain mixed and blended to destroy the only thing in my life I ever genuinely cared about.

It’s always a bit humorous to me to hear people question my emotional investment in things. Friends, family, acquaintances, you name it there’s been an expectation that I assign some emotional attachment or meaning to it, but sadly I don’t feel invested in anyone or anything. Trinkets that once held great importance are nothing more now than idle objects, devoid of any inherent meaning. My bonds with people aren’t anywhere near what they once were. I’ve become hollow, an actor playing the part of what I should be.

The rationalization begins and ends that I’m simply reacting to a change in emotional stability brought on by my sleep patterns being cast into massive upheaval. Sadly though, I’ve been inclined to examine the true standing of it all and I think I’ve found the true cause of my issue. I’m wracked with guilt at having so much figurative blood on my hands that I’m now beginning to punish myself by pushing away and tainting any and all prospects for meaningful relationships. It’s a popular fact that I’m a force of chaos in the world, my sheer presence can make one guilty by association no matter the medium of contact and serve as an almost surefire way to complicate life. Sadly it doesn’t stop there either, I’ve noticed my analytical acumen slipping and I think it’s because so much of it was tied to who I was then that I don’t feel I deserve to have the talent any longer. Where once it was something innate and automatic, I find now that I miss the most obvious and worse yet, can’t draw conclusions anywhere near as well as I once did. It’s like my brains running on mute.

I’ll admit that a large part of it is most likely the breakneck speeds at which my life has run since the old dynamic came to a close, but I don’t buy for a second that it’s the whole story. I’m realizing that I’ve got to systematically deal with dynamics that I’ve recently begun because they’re based around false ideas. I’m not reaching out for the reasons I should be, to invest myself in someone else, to feel happy, or be connected; to benefit from all that another person has to offer. Rather I’m producing these dynamics en masse because they serve to punish me for all that I’ve failed at. It’s idle, it’s sick, it’s reprehensible and honestly no sane person would do it. But I do, freely, self aware, and reveling in all the madness and negativity that will come flowing from it.

I don’t deserve to be happy, not from where I sit. I ruined something that wasn’t mine to be a part of to begin with. The social contract dictates that my feelings are spared for the most part aside from the acknowledgment and clarification of the dynamic, but it doesn’t exculpate me from guilt. I took it a step further and actually put fire to the stake. I torched the whole thing and danced in the rain of ashes. I’m a deplorable human being, capable of the worst transgressions and vile actions imaginable in someone. Serial killers may torture, maim, rape, or taunt their captives but ultimately death is a release and a solace for those tortured souls. I afford my victims no such courtesy, choosing to allow them their lives, and watching idly from the shadows, my tendrils still snaking about as they’re left to piece their lives back together in the aftermath of my involvement in it.

I’m rambling and don’t have a point, well aside from now I’m back to whiny bullshit. Oh well hopefully my readership is down enough that this one will be glazed over and nothing more need be said.