26: Heart – Pounding

This thought is so vague that I cannot give it any real substance. Again, today, I have awoken with an utter detestation for my life. Is that the right word? Certainly, the idea that there is some­thing terribly wrong is there, and certainly the aware­ness of that sentiment is terribly unpleasant. It is as if the foulest tasting thing is ever-present in my mouth. A sort of nastiness that defies investi­ga­tion, whose analysis stops the moment it is be­gun. The analysis is swamped instantly by the thing it seeks to analyse. It is like putting a boat on water, and the boat begins to fill, not because the water is seeping through cracks in the plank­ing, but because the water has developed the ca­pac­ity to trickle up the sides of the boat, over the gun­wale, then down into the bottom.

Is something present that I wish were not? Well, it certainly feels that that is so, yet what is this thing whose presence so malforms my experi­ence of things? Is something absent, whose pres­ence would relieve the situation? Well, all sorts of things are absent, and I can list them if I want to, and I can reject as irrelevant to my investigation any quantity that you please. Wealth – never wanted it. Material possessions – a burden. Youth – well, it would be nice to have that back, I sup­pose. Spiritual insights – ah, now this is getting closer. Companionship – yes, let’s keep that on the list; for once, for decades, I had that, and I miss it so very much. Conversation – yes again, for surely this must be put on the list. I cannot think of any­thing else.

Yet this analysis fails. For I endured this feel­ing of wrongness – albeit at a lesser intensity, per­haps – for all those years whilst I enjoyed my com­panionship and its conversations. So their lacking now cannot be the cause of what was already there, even if now the lack of them makes it worse.

Again I have been awakened by a pounding heart and the swelling of a panic attack. My ad­renal glands think that something is wrong.

I got on the wrong train once, and had to get off at the next station and go back again, but whilst the train was yet moving, taking me further and further in the wrong direction, I endured such a panic of helplessness that all subsequent panics for the rest of my life have always been referred to it. And now I feel, every day, that I am still on that wrong train, but now there is no station where it will stop and let me off. It takes me to my doom, yet in some sense I feel this is not the doom I am meant to be advancing towards, but a doom meant for someone else. I can embrace whatever doom awaits the Human Condition, that is not a prob­lem, but I do so want it to be my doom, and not some­one else’s.

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