It always takes me quite some time to get what they exactly mean. I wonder if it’s a matter of habit of resistance to what historically warrants resistance, or subjective perception of the objective world, which is persistently and consistently reinforced through self-affirmation and the proneness to attribute all that’s not immediately comprehensible to the lack of intelligence or consideration on the part of others. The wrinkles around his eyes and basically all over his fatigued yet confident face caught my eyes and prevent me from making more eye contact than strictly necessary. I stare into the computer screen instead, knowing for a fact that eye contact in this particular case makes next to zero difference. What am I doing here. Where have the years gone. These are the two questions, to which the answers evade me at any given point in time, on both literal and figurative levels. I try to squeeze out a smile that can be loosely interpreted as an indication of respect, which he may or may not have earned based on the years that marked his life as half lived. How should I know. The loudness of his voice and the complacency that it carries gives me a sense of physical disgust mixed with indifference. My brain involuntarily and falsely stores the heuristic that this individual is the stereotypical man of the very country to which I don’t and won’t ever belong.
Speaking softly and tentatively of a lack of the sense of belonging, I look up from the piece of paper which contains an exhaustive list of over fifty human needs, some more fundamental than others. How can it be that they keep talking about it or at least keep showcasing how much they talk about it but still are incapable of empathizing or at least appearing to empathize when people are caught in moments of vulnerability and sentimentality. They nod agreeingly and absent-mindedly, as if I was simply recounting a not well remembered idle holiday in an uncharacteristic countryside. Over the years I naturally developed the tendency to have very low expectations from people, because people might disappoint you and hurt you if you let them. I watch them as we continue to discuss or make fun of other topics suggested to us by people that may or may not have a more profound understanding of human interaction. At least they try. And trying itself is commendable. Maybe if we avoid feelings altogether the world would be an easier place. I think reading Sally Rooney’s books kind of brought me back to a time when I was young enough to give my own random thoughts so much importance that I rambled on and on, regardless of the prospect of getting a considerable readership base. I cannot really say whether it’s a good or bad thing (especially since I’m starting to lose my ability to form a reasonably eloquent sentence in English without first resorting to a few words in German that sometimes appear superior in terms of precision of expression, but not to say that I’m capable of forming any eloquent sentence in German itself). I’m not even recommending her books, simply mentioning them. There’re more useful books to read or spend your time on. I guess I’m just grateful that the way she writes reminded me of the way I used to write, not that these two ways necessarily overlap – that’s beside the point. The florescent lamps are shining equally over me and others, just like the sun, I wonder why we don’t all feel the same.
2 Comments
14/10/2022 11:20:16
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29/10/2022 19:42:18
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