A Collection of Spectacles

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Very few go through life feeling, it seems. It’s as if I’m attached to Earth’s umbilical cord, emotion is stronger, things seem to upset me more. Joy is comparable to euphoria, its opposite is felt with the intensity of a bludgeoning.

I speak with her frequently and among the topics we discuss are how we think, how we conceptualize. We suffer from the same “analytical disease,” a rare illness in which the afflicted views the world with a magnifying glass, defects in human character are blown up to macrocosmic proportions. I have never been sick around her, however. The exhausting energy normally guided towards assessing others is used on trying not to fall into this disgusting rut. This is only because she is respected and I need to believe that there is at least one person whose faults aren’t adornments.

Enjoying life normally is not pleasurable when I have to live on the outskirts of misanthropic hell, and I need the same amount of energy (albeit, guided differently) to move out of limbo, if just for a bit.

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