Do you want to hear something amusing? (Qualifier: I think it’s amusing — well, blackly amusing; your mileage may vary.)
Recently, I’ve felt as if I’m being watched.
Patently ridiculous, of course. I live in a fifth floor flat at the top of the tallest building in the area. The desk at which I spend most of my day working is at the opposite end of the room from the window. There’s no way anyone could see me.
Of course, there’s the possibility of virtual voyeurs. I suppose, oddly, I feel as if I’m being virtually watched at the moment as well. More than usual. More than I have in thirteen years of living almost the entirety of my life online. Perhaps because I’ve been figuratively spilling my guts on these pristine pages, rather than scrawling through the previously employed impenetrable layers of meaning. Such verisimilitude leaves me nervous. I find myself irritably exclaiming “Stop that! Do something else!” when I find that I’m writing here again. I’m saying it to myself at this very moment, in fact. I’m telling myself to stop writing about how I tell myself to stop writing. Very meta.
So, yes, I’m being watched. Maybe there really is someone hiding in the wardrobe. My worry, if that’s the case, is how utterly, mind-numbingly bored they must be as they endure their daily observations of my dreary existence. Any moment now I expect to hear an exasperated scream of rage and a demand that I do something interesting before my voyeur is forced to start pulling out their eyes with rusty forks.
Second thought: I need more hatred in my psyche.
People — I would call them friends, but though they may have been at one time they’re now firmly of the virtual variety — who witness my commentary online, on social networks, could easily be convinced that I’m already brimful of hatred and the last thing I need is any more rancid blood coursing through my veins. They’re wrong. That’s not hatred I display online; it’s exasperation, even disappointment. Disappointment with the world I see around me and — just in case you think I’m absolving myself of all responsibility — disappointment and exasperation with myself.
Furthermore, all the while that I’m commenting, that same voice telling me to stop writing this post is urging me to stop commenting, to stop feeling the need to take part, to close down the social network and step away. No one’s interested. My stream of bile is the last thing that anyone needs polluting their timeline. “Made you feel better, did it? Did writing those two bitter, twisted lines provide the necessary relief you were seeking? No? Do you still want to wash your mouth out with bleach? What a surprise.”
My response to my internal voice is to shrug, look sheepish, plead something vague about the need for communication, then skulk off to hide in the wardrobe with the voyeur — telling them to get out and take over my life for a while, because it’s now my turn to watch.
I need more hatred in my psyche in order to wipe out the other parts of my essential nature that offer anything but hate.
That’s enough. I’m shrugging. I look sheepish. But, well…communication, you know? Communication, just that. That’s me done for tonight. I’m going to go and hide in the wardrobe. I want to find out what the voyeur thinks is so very interesting about me, because I’m damned if I know.