Way Down Inside (294 hits)
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Submitted by AJ <uberaj.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-08-02 02:59:52 EDT
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"That hurts my feelings."
"You don't HAVE any feelings."
Such is a typical exchange with my ex-girlfriend and me. Countless conversations are had this way. On the surface I wear a shit-eating grin, thinking that by creating a faux sense of being impervious, I gain some sort of upper-hand. In what? I'm not sure. But I know that when I do find out, I'll know I'm winning. But way down inside, her words bother me.
Am I a heartless monster? Do I not have the capability for compassion? For sympathy? For love? The prospect scares me, I must admit. In the science fiction genre, the villains are usually some form of alien race or robot or half-alien half-robot that is hell-bent on taking over Earth. With the exception of the first, they all bear a strikingly similar resemblance to our own appearances. Usually bipeds speaking English if they speak a language at all. But the one thing that sets them apart from the heroes and protagonists in these movies and books is that they lack the capability of feeling. Maybe not all feeling, but at least lacking in compassion and empathy.
I suppose there must be some sort of suspension of disbelief, as with all sci-fi movies, because when it boils down to it, if these space invaders have no feelings they also have no motivation. And why else bother with all the collateral damage associated with taking over and enslaving or exterminating a planet with six billion people? If there is no feeling of greed or lust then why bother? Wouldn't it make more sense for these beings to just practice population control and rationing on their own planet than to take over others? They obviously have no concern with how many lives of their comrades they lose, but are more worried about attaining the glory of capturing a new home. They feel satisfied, so therefore, they feel. They are motivated by those feelings of satisfaction.
The last sentence allays my fears for a moment, but then a new realization hits me. I am not motivated.
I haven't wanted anything in a long time. On the one hand, this may be seen as a plus. If I want for nothing, then I must be content, no? But on the other, if there is no want for anything, what satisfaction is derived from one day to the next? If there are no wants, ambitions, or goals, there is merely just a state of meandering from one day to the next. Each day becomes more and more like the last until I look up and realize that "holy shit it's August" and I remember that just the other day I was thinking, "Holy shit it's July!" Time flies when you're having fun. Time also flies when you've got nothing to look forward to or fear.
I think myself a bit of a cynic most of the time. I try to picture myself twenty years down the road. I try to imagine that I'll have twenty cats and call every single one of them the same name. I picture these fucking cats and I see myself sitting at the computer gently stroking this big fucking calico that's getting hair all over my cardigan but it's okay because I'm sitting in her chair. Gina loves this chair. And Gina II is eating Gina III's food but settle down kitties there's enough to go around. Uh-oh, Gina IV has shat on the rug and Gina's V and VI are sniffing at it as if it's some sort of new-found treasure. Ah hahaha... Gina VII took a bite and is now vomiting on the tile in the kitchen. I love you Gina. And you too Gina.
I'll call each and every one of them the same name as the one that got away. Or more aptly, the one who never was. Such a fitting animal to bear the name. They'll show me affection, but never too much. They'll keep their distance. They're content to just be, and so am I. It'll be a wonderful arrangement. All of us just being. Not being happy, not being anything. Just being. I'll feed them and keep them alive and they'll know that I love them and I'll know they love me but that it will never be anything more than that. And that's fine because we'll all be so busy being us that we don't have time to be we. But way down inside I think it would be nice to score some pussy.
I see these twenty cats and my thinning temples and my cardigan sweater and my brand-new iMac that I don't really even use anymore just have for the sake of having. I'd use it more often but I think I'll come to loathe interpersonal interaction. Either that or I'll alienate everyone. I don't know which I'd rather have. Both are by my own hand, but both are equally my own fault.
I went on a sales call the other day. Forty-five miles away from home. Seventy away from work. I did it because no one else would be willing. I don't mind. I have nowhere else to be. And I drove that forty-five miles and saw that it was familiar terrain. I pass all the gas stations Dad used to get his lottery tickets at. There was one in particular that he was rather fond of. He would always stop and buy Bingo scratch tickets and a meatball sub loaded up with jalapenos. Don was a creature of habit.
It's scary how much we resemble each other. Or would, I should say. Same height, same eye color, same voice. Most sons see it as an honor to be the spitting image of their father. Most sons didn't have Don. I worry about these resemblances. On one side of things, Don was handsome- he could charm a snake out its basket sans flute. On the reverse, Don was a pathological liar and a blatant underachiever.
I see myself as the same underachiever. I wore gold cords on graduation day. I still don't have a degree to my name and have a GPA a full point lower than I had in high school. I'm taking the semester off. Probably the next few, too. Don never finished college, either. It stems from the motivation factor. There is no challenge to anything I've come across in college. The challenge comes from within. The challenge comes from skipping the last three weeks of classes and still pulling an A in Macroeconomics. The challenge comes from seeing how many classes I can miss and still be the smartest person in the damned room.
I have no feelings of fear or consequences because I know that Europe in the Age of Monarchy is not what's going to get me through life. They say if you don't learn the mistakes of the past you're doomed to repeat them. I'm not going to be hiring any serfs or pledging fealty to any nobles anytime soon, so don't you worry, Professor Yost. I'm going to repeat mistakes of a different nature. Ones you don't learn about in over-priced books. The son doesn't pay for the crimes of the father until he commits those same crimes himself.
Repetition is inevitable. We are creatures of habitual ritual. We all leave for the same time from work everyday. We all drive a relatively constant speed. We all shop at the same stores looking for an outfit that will set us apart or make us stand out and still see seven people wearing the same goddamn thing as we walk out to the parking lot. Way down inside we think, "Fucking shit. I just bought this and everyone already has the same thing!" So we all think "Maybe I'll go back and buy a different shirt," without ever stopping to think that the other seven people are thinking the same fucking thing and are going to go back and buy the same new shirt. Way down inside we yearn to be different but are too stubborn or stupid or unmotivated to change anything in our routines that would ensure that difference.
So you and me and everyone else will keep plugging away at the day-to-day, some more motivated than others, most more motivated than me. Some say that no one is ever truly happy with their lives. That's a fair assessment. But everyone settles. Everyone has a goal in mind and when they achieve it, they stop. They may make new goals later but in the meantime their everyday variance graphs are as flat as the state of Nebraska. Those that are never satisfied with settling are the ones that are the most unhappy. They die early deaths or become the most spectacular failures. Icarian flight. What goes up must come down. But what floats, what floats brothers and sisters, stays the same unless something causes it to move. There's an ebb and flow but overall nothing really ever changes.
Way down inside we all want to be the best we can but we also don't want to find that upper-limit. No one wants to know that they can't do any better than they are at a precise moment in time.
Way down inside I know that I can do better, but I just don't want to find out how much. Cowardice? Maybe. Stupidity? Debatable. But there's something satisfactory with being able to convince myself that if I really, really wanted to, I could. Could what, exactly? Don't know. But whatever it is, I could. Way down inside I fear being alone with my 20 Gina's. Way down inside I fear I'm a failure. But even deeper is the satisfaction that I'll never have to find out.
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Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-03-08 09:42:30 EST (#)
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http://www.ubersite.com/m/84852#1873081
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2005-10-30 05:23:43 EST (#)
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