I am an empty eggshell, full of nothingness. Emotions and desires come distantly if at all. If you put me in the palm of your hand, you wouldn’t be able to crush me despite all your might, because stubbornly and spitefully I refuse to crack, to break open and reveal the emptiness inside.
Try as I might to fill the void, or to ignore it, I can’t acknowledge the impact it has on my life. I can’t deny how it harms me, though I am beyond harm. Days when I can’t get out of bed once I get back in, days when I can’t bear to communicate with another person. Every day just going through the motions. Crippled by my lack of emotion.
It is not sad or happy, angry or lonely. It simply is, and I simply am. I numb the numbness by forcing excitement, by seeking adrenaline, pleasure, distraction. It works for a while but then the high subsides and I’m left dull as old brass.
Somehow I insist on existing, on pretending to be fine. Biding my time until something warm grows within and spreads to my fingertips, a light that both illuminates and casts shadows. In the meantime, senselessly alienating everyone who wants to love me. Whom I want to want to love, whose love I want to want. But I don’t, and can’t even feel sorry for it. Someday I will.