I knew it wasn’t anger then, watching the knife fall in slow motion, ripples on the water. This thing that tears away at my insides, not pain… channeled into rage and violence. And yet I seem to be incapable of violent emotion. Reactions ebb and fade as I stare blindly. Left with nothing but this putrid calm. My head reeling from things that I’ve done… but would it reel like this if I wasn’t so sick? Guilt, fear and passion swallowed by depression, churned and mixed until there’s nothing left but exhaustion. No desire for revenge, no desire for escape or release, no desire… at all. (If this is Samadhi I’d rather have a mildewed mind). Except perhaps for the meaningless fleshly “delights”.
I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone without adapting to the new surroundings. So this is what it’s like to live with the consequences of your mistakes. If it was anger I could hurt my enemies without any remorse. If it was pain I would be able to think of a reason, and it wouldn’t tear apart the fabric of my soul. Maybe it’s nothing but allergies… but then it would mean all this suffering is meaningless (not to mention that it would fail to inspire any prose).
I think the philosophers were insane.
