It’s strange that I have bothered to hang around this long, considering all the nihilistic thoughts that populate my brain.
I was about 17 when it first occurred to me to ask myself, ‘What’s the point in being alive?’ And over the next 50-odd years I have repeated this obtuse question, and I still come up with the same answer: No point. I am not able to justify my existence, and as a consequence, have failed to develop a socially acceptable outlook on three important levels. Firstly, how I perceive myself; secondly, how I view my fellow human beings; and thirdly, how I see my place in the cosmos.
How do I see myself? Most people work very hard at constructing a heroic image of themselves. The moment I get started on any such image building activity I am stopped in my tracks by the sound of sniggering at my shoulder. I suddenly feel embarrassed, as if I had been observed practising a smile in the mirror, or someone had opened the door to find me busy masturbating. It’s as if I possess some kind of mental mechanism that automatically alerts me to any sign of self-delusion with regard to my physical appearance, my character, and my achievements.
My appearance. Physical beauty is heavily dependent on symmetry. If you were to take a corpse to a sawmill and run it head first through one of those big circular saws they use to turn logs into planks, you would end up with two matching halves that, put together, make the whole. (This doesn’t apply to the internal organs, though.) There is something aesthetically pleasing about discovering or producing any form of bilateral symmetry, and the more seamless it appears, the closer it comes to our sense of perfection. In my case, if you were to split me down the middle, you would have difficulty in putting me back together again, because the two halves don’t quite match. There’s something faintly grotesque about my appearance, as if Pablo Picasso had interfered in my design.
Admittedly, I am above average in height, which is considered by many to be an advantage for a man. However, I have found that smaller men tend to resent having to look up at me, and many have made my life difficult on that account. And because I am tall it doesn’t mean that I am correspondingly strong. My bones are light, my shoulders droop somewhat, and I have little muscle mass, which all combines to make me unmistakably ectomorphic. A much shorter mesomorph would have no difficulty in overpowering me and shoving my face in the dirt. There is no grace in my movements, and I showed no sporting ability in my youth. So, all in all, I am not a particularly good physical specimen. (I can’t even boast a large penis by way of compensation for this general lack of prowess. My erect member, when I can get it up, is unexceptional in both length and girth.)
My character. As for my character, the evidence is similarly uninspiring. Although I know how to make myself passably agreeable when I have to, it doesn’t come easily. Being an introvert, I am ill at ease and self-conscious in a group. My sense of social inadequacy causes me to experience rising embarrassment and I become tongue-tied and red in the face. I am wary of extraverts, suspecting them of shallowness and insincerity, and resenting their effortless ability to interact with other members of the species. Yet I do not feel drawn to fellow introverts, for I recognise myself cowering behind that self same contemptible diffidence. Yes, I score low when it comes to the evaluation of social skills.
No comments:
Post a Comment