Back on my Bike

Credits: PsyOnyx 4 on Tumblr

I've said this way too many times on here, but...

Been a while, huh?

Howdy. It's been nine long, arduous months. This year has been absolutely dreamlike. Not a sweet dream, but not a nightmare either. Just one of those dreams where you do mildly-out-of-the-normality-but-not-quite-out-of-the-realm-of-reality stuff, y'know? Yeah, I don't even really know what to say, to be honest. Things happened. Events occurred. Life goes on. The days were long, but the years flew by. The older I get, the more that saying resonates with me. My days are mostly filled with dull, monotonous routines, staring at spreadsheets after spreadsheets from nine-to-six, five days a week. I'm living the capitalist dream, baby whoooey. Oh, and speaking of jobs, I left my old one for a new one. I say "left" but I was really laid off. But see, the thing is, I already had one foot out the door anyhow, so... to quote master Bob Ross, happy accidents, I suppose. The new job's nothing fancy, nor is it much different from my old one. Still within the same industry, still roughly the same job description, just got a slight upgrade in terms of salary and job level is all.

The adult life has proven to be quite a lot to handle, as it turned out. And I'm not even married or anything yet. Even still, it just feels like the world's not allowing me to express myself anymore. At least not as much as I used to. Obviously, the world has nothing to do with anything. It has everything to do with myself. I, the chronic procrastinator, Mr. Due-Tomorrow-Do-Tomorrow, am unable to split my time efficiently enough that I can still do my hobbies while also maintaining that cash flow. But I mean, it's just...

I dunno, man.

I still do my hobbies. I still play basketball, albeit only once a week. I still play video games, albeit only 2-3 hours at a time (as opposed to 6+ hours back in my gaming prime). And I even started playing the piano again, albeit very amateurishly and only in simple chords and whatever. But I am evidently making time for things I wanna do.

But the thing is, I don't feel...

period.

That's it. I don't feel. It's hard to describe, but it's exactly that.

I do not feel.

I cannot feel.

I don't know which one's worse, but either one's a problem.

See, my hobbies, almost all come as a form of emotional release. Basketball, for instance, while it is a sport that has proven to be beneficial for my physical health, was (and is) a refuge I sought when everything else was simply not going my way. From that refuge, I was lucky to have gotten myself good friends, which further emphasized the emotional importance of the sport I came to hold dear.

Music, while it started out as a chore and something I had to do, not what I wanted, has slowly become a means to express myself. As a youngster, I was enrolled in piano classes (as every Asian kid does), and I'll admit, I wanted to be able to play the piano as a kid, but the reason why was because I watched those scenes from Tom & Jerry where Tom was playing the piano, and I wanted to be like Tom. But it never became a true passion for me, at least not until I became aware of how interesting and intricate the music world truly is. Which, at that point, I was already too far removed from the music world. So now, I guess I'm trying to make up for all that lost time, though all I can do is play the simple chords of songs I like.

Writing, especially so. Perhaps thee emotional release tool for me. The hermit with no friends to talk to, the recluse that never left his room even on the sunniest of summer days (unless he ran out of food). Only ever roaming the outer wilds when the moon shone, when the world was quiet and he could act all crazy without anyone's judging eyes. Writing became the sole outlet for me, the one means of unloading all that had been built up inside. The pent-up anger, the seemingly neverending loneliness, pushed me into writing more. A hobby turned into an escape. Silly, innocent diary entries of a confused teenager turned into a display of overshared laments of an equally (if not more) confused adult.

But through writing, I learned. I learned to understand myself better. Not quite verbalizing it, but at least through the process of writing, I had to recall all these events, and somehow put them all into a series of words, sentences, paragraphs, dissecting every detail from pure memory. This process, delving deep into my own memories, my own thoughts, trying to understand my own psyche, gave me a way to process my feelings. Was it subjective? Of course. After all, I had no outside input, neither affirmation nor refute. It was very much self-diagnosed and self-realized, which is why my view of the world around me turned warped and dangerously cynical.

Still, in my defense, I made do with what little I had. And all things considered, I don't think I turned out that bad.

Not good, mind you, oh no, not at all. Far from good. You wouldn't see me and benevolence be mentioned in the same sentence. But not bad, either.

The problem with having "emotions", notably the negative ones, be the sole driver behind my writing is that once it's gone, trying to put two sentences together became a task more difficult than climbing Mount Everest. And that is precisely what is happening to me.

I relied on my emotions way too much that I grew dependent on them. 

I never thought a day would come when I could no longer feel them.

In moments of joy, I don't feel warm. In moments of heartache, I can still sleep soundly. In moments of mournfulness, I go about my day like nothing happened. Everything that passed by me, simply passed by. I am fully aware of them. And much to the same degree, I am also aware that I should feel a certain way as a reaction to said events. The fuzziness of being loved, the gut-wrenchingness(??) of anguish, the butt-clenchingness(???) of excitement. These moments came and went, and in abundance, too.

And yet, I felt nothing.

Which brings us here. The current state of affairs.

For the past nine months, I have been trying, and trying, and trying to write something, and yet, nothing came to fruition. An emotionally charged writer, now completely numb. Ideas were aplenty, but come time to write, I blanked out every time. I'd probably muster up a few sentences, but more often than not, those sentences would end up banished into the shadow realm via my backspace key, never to be seen or heard again. 

Not a word of exaggeration, but I am sitting on 21 drafts on this blog alone. With the fic works included, it's damn near in the 30s.

Maybe it's the nine-to-six. Maybe it's the consecutive blows of loss and grief. Maybe it's the lack of professional help. Who knows man, I sure as hell don't. I used to hold Professor Morrie's words so closely to my heart. To feel every feeling, every emotion, in its whole. Don't deny them, but embrace them, really let them simmer deep. And once you let that happen, you let those feelings go.

I tried, Professor, I truly did, but you never explained to me what to do or what it means when those emotions just bounce right off me. What am I to do now?

Back then, I might not be able to completely let go of myself and feel deeply, but at least I felt it, somewhat. The pain, the joy, the sweet, the bitter, hell even the mundane. These days, I just feel lackadaisical. I used to be driven by a good mix of youthful optimism and sorrowful loneliness. Now, I am barely alive. Or perhaps more precisely, I am barely living.

So now, I'm forced to twist things around, turn my reality upside down, to seek a new perspective. To continue romanticizing life and being dramatic like the eternal teenager that I am. To present my less-than-ideal day-to-day routine with big words and relish in the fact that I am very much in control of my own life and how it shall be perceived by others through my writing.

After all, this lack of emotional stimuli is a stimulus in and of itself. Okay you know what, it didn't really make as much sense on paper as it did in my head, but you know what I mean. That lack of stimuli led to me writing this long ass passage, so I'm sure I can make it work somehow.

The fact that I still have ideas pumping out the wazoo, the fact that there are 21 unfinished works waiting to be published, the fact that even with all the numbness I am feeling I am still capable of writing this within less than 3 accumulated hours, are enough proof that my plucky ol' teenage self still lives within me. The me who still dreams big and will not rest until he makes a name for himself.

And maybe, sometime in the future (hopefully sooner than later, fingers crossed), I will relearn how to feel. Even better than I did before.

I'm dusting off my bicycle and I'm going to ride it again. I might fall and stumble a couple of times or more, but with my level of muscle memory, I'll get back to it in no time.

Stay healthy y'all.

-R.