Who am I? How do I know who am I?

Inner Cosmos_spacevorobey.tumblr.com_tumblr_nyroxsji7T1sgn87so1_1280
Artwork from spacevorobey.tumblr.com/post/134446277143. All rights belong to the original artist who is not known

It’s the fragments of thought, of memory, and shreds of recalled memories. Things that we’d known long ago, or we thought we knew, but now we aren’t so sure anymore. And we’re fighting the deluge, fighting like a battalion of desperate-for-End warriors. Yet, we know we shall sink beneath the waves anyway. That’s where we’re headed. That’s where we had come from. Nothingness to nothingness, that’s all this is. This Life. This is the deluge that tries to beats us back as we embark upon the Voyage, outwards. The Voyage Out. To never to return. At least, not like what we used to be.

This deluge, so far, has now brought me to the shore, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I do not know where to go, but I do have an idea of the general direction Life is leading me into. It’s a solitary path to the edge. A path that entwines with those of others momentarily, and then diverges, to may or may not converge again. The Essential Aloneness. The quest to be self-sufficient, emotionally and psychologically. A quest I was led on to by another. But now it has become mine, my goal, my quest. My life. And it excludes them, or at least I wish to exclude them anyway.

‘breaking’ by Boicu Marinela (artist)

It is much better in here. It is happier in here. Sunnier than the outside. More flowers there than are to be found outside. No anxiety. Just bouts of severe lethargy of a depressive episode. Along with the deep, painful pull of Functionality, and Priorities, helped by Empathy and Compassion, the Core Values. My Core Competencies that the outside world will never give a rat’s arse about.

And outside?

Outside, it’s pain. Lethargy. Apathy. People being treated like a bunch of Android- and iOS-operated robots, judged for their different ways of working, marked as just another fact or a figure. Their humanness is of negligible value, unless they are ‘productive’ and, thus, deserve to be treated as human. So that’s that then. They are more human than I am to you. They are more trustworthy than I am to you. They will easily face ruthless tests, whereas I will fail, fall flat on my face; and with my fall, insult you in front of your benefactor, so badly so that you’ll never be able to show face in the Conference Room again. That was, then, all there ever was to my humanness.

Empathy, or compassion, doesn’t mean a thing. It’s the Product. An object, multi-layered, hewn together in an insanely small period of time, and expected to brave the storms of critiques, of the public opinion. If it falls, it is my neck on the line. If it stands, you are put on the pedestal. The Heroine of Our Publishing Year.

But it is only I who knows exactly how much of my precious blood, sweat, and tears were poured into that ‘product’. It is only I who sees a precious amalgamation of the sheer backbreaking work done by me and the original creator come together into the blessed, sacred form of a book.

It is only I who documents the ever-evolving, the new-and-improved abstractions called ‘soft skills’. These abstractions, rapidly-growing micro-organisms of the world of work, are important only if balanced out by one’s ‘hard’ skills. More tangible, will clang deafeningly if struck with a steel rod. Not at all like the itsy bitsy teeny weeny things that are so abstract as to not exist in your eyes. Abstract is, then, what I’m made of.

Yes. That’s me, then. I am. Abstract.

Does that explain your lack of trust in me?

It does to me.


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