22 May 2012
Roger: Who are you to tell me what I know, what to do?
Mark: A friend.
Roger: But who, Mark, are you? "Mark has got his work", they say "Mark lives for his work and Mark's in love with his work" Mark hides in his work.
Mark: From what?
Roger: From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact that you live a lie.
- Goodbye Love, Rent
In an attempt to drain myself to the point of mind-numbing exhaustion, I've volunteered my weekends (my, perhaps, only salvation to physical respite and mental defragmenting) to a seemingly overindulgent series of activities that would eventually merit me the burnout that I've, theoretically, deemed best for my present state of mind. High dosages of stress, both work related and otherwise, have already caused me a waning appetite for food and conversation, and I wonder how much further before I finally submit into the realm of complete withdrawal and depression. I guess my purpose for this seemingly self-destructive exposure is to drown out the annoying humdrum of my emotional confusion. In the state of tiredness, one is permitted the luxury of a peaceful rest, of a silenced mind, of a numbed-out soul.
During one of our midnight conversations, I've confessed to a friend my theory regarding feelings that subtly creep in the backdoor of your mind and go boogieing senselessly throughout the night. I've often wondered how in the light of day, I am mostly confident of myself, my abilities and most importantly, my decisions; but as the day kneels down to be blanketed by night, my steadfastness and confidence begin to shrivel into an abhorrent ball of self-pity and self-doubt. I begin to question the legitimacy and soundness of even the most logical of my decisions and at times, would act completely against my agreed mental terms (with myself), appeased disappointingly, though hopefully not regrettably, with a weak emotional justification. In the end, recognizing this to be a weak point, I've tried to keep my alone time as occupied as I possibly could, to detour my thoughts into other, less emotionally fueled workings - lest it be some creative work.
If only I can fashion a different and better approach in curbing this emotional avalanche from causing unspeakable destruction, believe me, I would've tried it.Lying in bed, surrounded by pillows and unspoken (and perhaps unrealized) emotions, I slowly become consumed in some of the craziest fantasies that often would prove impudent had it been conceived in the lucidity of day and clear headed contemplation. I begin to question my motives, my feelings and my decisions. I question my life and my achievements. I question reality, or the one that I seem to be existing in my physical state of consciousness.
It is in these moments, I feel the weight of being alone. My life is mine alone, and so shall all decisions that shall pass through me. I shall bear the burden of all my choices, and that is mine alone to comprehend and mother. In the absence of sleep, while everyone else have so happily succumbed to their rest, I struggle to achieve the same rest in vain, and this I would have to deal with alone. How often I have reached for the warmth of a hand to comfort me in my distress of insomnia, and how often I grasp an unresponsive one - increasing my frustration over my isolation, despite the presence of others.
Funny how people keep saying that no man is an island, for no man can be complete without the aid of others. But similarly, no man can depend upon others, as each one would go through the motions of his own personal tribulations - carrying his own cross, with all its weight and sentimental meanings, of which no other can completely share.
I wonder when this inexorable crush that's been choking me and thwarting my sanity will eventually subside. I wonder indeed. Until then, I shall be submitting myself in the service of my many niceties - smiling and praying that this internal loneliness shall too pass.