psyche

I am sitting here. It’s somewhere between 4AM today and 4AM tomorrow. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Great towers of papers and file rustle proudly around me as I hunch over my computer. It glows and hums with life, staring me in the face and daring me to do something. I won’t do anything. I hear clocks ticking. They don’t stop. Up, down. Zero, one. High, low. Tick, tock. It’s some of the best music I’ve ever heard. At my back stands the shadow and he tells me to stop whining. I should listen. He is some facet of my hidden mind. I hate him but am somehow glad that he can’t die. He’s the only part of me that won’t. He says “Farhan!” and the gravity is too much so I don’t look up. I won’t ever look up! He tells me that I should just focus. I am smart but not applying myself. Is this true? No, I don’t think so. He does. Optimist to the last.
My problem is trivial now but I consider it agitatedly as it slowly begins to threaten to compress my brain until I can’t think straight and I simply expire. It is like some crushing weight. There is another shadow. Not the optimist this time, but an entirely less opinionated being. It is fact. It is the result that speaks for itself. The test score that needs no explanation. Surely there is no need for the backstory to each of these failures? I had neither disadvantage nor handicap. It was fair. I failed. So the shadow is fact and failure. It stands unsmiling but nods when it recognises me. It ticks like the clock. I will always fail. I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again now: it is an old friend. It stands fast beside the Don’t Whine Shadow. Fail Shadow and Don’t Whine Shadow. Freudian glimpses of who I am. “Don’t give up on me,” I hear myself scream, “for I am not going to fail all the time! I am happy! I will achieve something!”. Teenage angst or not, I feel very bad. Not depressed.
I understand without prejudice or emotion. I have no fear of this. It just makes me twinge a little with sadness; not emotional sadness but some strange intellectual sadness like that which one feels when one sees the organ fail. “What a shame.” That sadness. It’s strange enough to make me stop and cringe momentarily as days rush past. I remember feeling connected, but now I don’t. I don’t know if I’m just uncertain or if there’s something beyond it. It doesn’t matter. I am absolutely committed to the truth that I will never be good enough. Whether this is because I think I never will be or because I am simply genetically inferior, I will never know.

I will try. This constant emo-ism is beginning to grate on me as much as it is on you.

Pax

P.S. All you cunts out there, know that a battle will come. Yes. Count on it.