Like a Drug

It’s like a drug.  It feels like an addiction.  I can never get enough of it. I’m always craving, longing, yearning for more.

24 hours of it every day wouldn’t even be enough.  I want it more intense.  I want more, more, more.  It’s never enough.

I’m like an addict, gobbling up the crumbs I find, the crumbs that are thrown to me, all in search of the high.  I’m starving but crumbs are all I have, all I can get.  I devour them as I wait agonisingly for a full meal, hoping I’d get a full meal at least once in a while but never having any.  Crumbs are all I can get.

I seek the first high I felt, but it was a one-off thing, a first-time thing.  It’ll never happen again.

I’ve been trying to find the strength in myself to stop this, to go cold turkey, to reduce my dependence on it.  Cutting things off is what I’ve always done.  I wish to be autonomous, independent, self-sufficient, and free of obligations.  I don’t want to be needy and dependent.

I’m on this sinking boat alone.  I don’t wish to pull anyone else down with me.

Numbers by a Dyscalculic (Part 2)

Income tax: Something I know nothing about.  And at my age, it’s eyebrow-raising.  I was always below the taxable income so it didn’t really matter, but in the past couple of years, I think it has crossed that point.  I work freelance so it has to be done manually as opposed to letting the company handle it for full-time employees, I think.  Someone told me that there’d be repercussions if I were to try to buy a property in future.  I don’t think I’d ever have near enough to even think about that though.  I think people tend to assume I earn much more than I actually do.

I was sent multiple letters over a year ago to get my ID card changed for a new one with an updated photo.  I ignored them, and so my ID card is still with a kiddy picture.  In my ignorance, I just thought that if I wasn’t going to be here much longer, why bother?  I’m just so removed from the world and I can’t really be bothered with the hassle of dealing with realistic stuff.  I can be really ignorant.  I used to think that homelessness didn’t exist here.  How bizarre is that?  It was only in the last couple of years whereby I chanced upon a short local documentary on the homeless here that I realised how ignorant and stupid I am.

I’m almost always late to appointments.  I can’t gauge time — the passing of time or how long something would take.  I rely on Google Maps for travel time.  I’m worse at estimating distances, lengths, and heights — I can’t at all.  I also can’t count without using my fingers or a calculator.  I’ve been running away from numbers all my life.  The last time I had a maths class was 13 years ago, during my 3rd (turd) attempt at Grade 9, and stats in “university” was nerve-racking (this was maybe about 3 years ago?).

All these numbers I’ve listed are meaningless and arbitrary to me.  Numbers just don’t stick to me at all.

Numbers by a Dyscalculic

Has it already been 3 years since I started this blog?  Has it been that long?  Skimming through the entries, it’s interesting to see the constant and gradual deterioration to the state I am in now, and how withdrawn I’ve become.

This isolation gets me restless.  It’s 5 in the morning now and I’m still unable to sleep, which is becoming the norm for me recently.  I wish I could knock myself out with sleeping pills, but that would entail going to the doctor’s and that’s not something I would want to do.  It’s so nice to be able to sleep the days away when I fall sick and have drowsy meds to take.

I’ve been meaning to write about Kant’s deontology but I haven’t had the time, energy, nor mood to.  It sounds like I’m busy with work but I’m not, really.  It’s just that the accompanying things that go along with getting to and from work saps so much of my time and energy.  It takes me about 2 hours to get ready for work and another 1 to 2 hours or so to wash up after work.  It often takes me about 1.5 hours each way to travel to and from whichever work location I need to be at, so I frequently end up booking a carpool or a cab to work, which cuts it down to about ½ an hour of travel instead but I end up spending hundreds of dollars each month on transportation alone.  It then also takes me about another hour or so to gorge on food after work, which is usually my only meal of the day on days when I have work.  With these additional 6-8 hours on top of work hours and hours spent trying to fall asleep, the entire tiring day is gone pretty quickly.

Choice of Robots had me bawling my eyes out.  Even though it was a rather short story, it got me thinking a lot: about how Type 5 my character resembled with the focus and time spent on building robots and the lack of human interaction; questions about the artificiality of the relationship when a robot is created and programmed to like or love you, and how sentient they are — which got me thinking about how, sometimes, having a child or getting a pet is a way to create a being or a pal that likes or loves you, that depends on you, to quell one’s loneliness, which isn’t a good place to come from if that’s the sole reason.  The game reminded me a lot about Frankenstein’s Creature in the way artificial beings question their existence and the existence of humanity, and point out the inconsistencies of human nature with such insightfulness and clarity.

Isolation: The Type 5’s Defence Mechanism

The Type 5 values wisdom, avoids emptiness, and has an idealised self-image of being perceptive.  Isolation is also used as a defence mechanism.  5s “sometimes control and dominate by becoming inaccessible, detached, overly self-sufficient, withholding, withdrawing, and miserly with their feelings.”

This “control by withdrawal” is something I’m familiar with.  I’ve closed myself off from everyone.  For the past year or so, apart from work, I’ve been interacting with people solely online.  But now, I’ve shut myself off completely.  It’s strange how it can all fade so quickly back to strangerhood.  It takes so long for me to consider someone an acquaintance, yet they slip back to being strangers so quickly and interactions become awkward.  It’s strange how isolated I am even though I’m physically around people and interacting with people when I’m at work.  It’s different from when I was housebound for a year and I never left my home — much less my room — and barely interacted with anyone face-to-face.  I feel myself slipping away.  I just wish I could shrink to nothingness.

Sooner or later, work will ask for proof of my educational background.  When I have to leave my job, it’d then be a complete isolation with a total lack of any socialisation.  I’d have to maintain the facade that I’m still working by leaving home from time to time, and I’ll probably linger around cinemas, museums and theaters to while the time away.  I don’t know how long the money in my bank account would last.  It’s all I have.

During childhood, I used to be in more of a catatonic state of sadness, with bouts of crying here and there, and proneness to outbursts of anger.  Now in my adulthood, it’s a weeping sort of sadness.  There’s no anger and I’m weepy all the time.  It’s as though I’m mourning over the loss of a loved one.

I see myself slipping down the levels of deterioration.  I don’t see any viable way to escape from this.  All I can do is just fall.

Madness

Madness.  I’m not too far off from there, you know?  I’ve been admitted to psychiatric hospitals before.

All I have is knowledge, and I have little.

All I have is my mind, of which I am losing.

I admire the genius in others, though I understand not in my stupidity.  I especially admire the healthy 5s, in my bias.  I am the runt of the pack; I admire from afar.

You must think I’m intelligent for I am INTJ and a 5.  I am far from it.

The game Orwell was an interesting play.  It made me think about what could be gleaned and twisted from this blog, especially when my innermost thoughts are written here.  I’ve always been conscious of, cautious, and deliberate with my words — always am.

You might wrongfully assume I’ve read George Orwell’s 1984.  I’ve neither the capacity nor the concentration to consume and comprehend it.

I am drawn to intellect, and that’s as far as I’ll get.

Heartstrings Played Like a Violin

Is all this real?  Is it just fantasy?  (Cue Bohemian Rhapsody.)

Did all these really happen?  Do they matter?

When it ceases, what was all of that then?

It’s almost like it’s just a figment of imagination and all the hours of conversation just slip away into nothingness.  It slips away so quickly and easily, as though it was but a dream.  How dreams seem so real in the moment and so clear, but slip away so quickly when we awake.  There’s some memory of it, but it feels so distant, so far away, yet the emotions are still so strong and the emotions linger on.

Do I really matter at all?  How easily one could be discarded and forgotten.

I’m left deeply impacted and affected.  Heartstrings played like a violin.  And so, the memories shall fade in time.