Over the years, I have become very good at denial. I am not the rash person I was before. I can't tell if I'm a better person for it. Recklessness felt alive. Now I feel very little for anything. There are very few things I can find it in myself to hate, love or fight for. What I do feel, I keep to myself, concealed under an inscrutable expression I have perfected. I see things, but I refuse to let myself react.
Emotions are pointless. They are futile attempts of our minds to come to grips with reality. They cloud judgement. If there is one emotion I am still as woefully subject to, it's anger. It is the one emotion I allow myself to indulge in. My anger used to be a by-product of my passions. Now it stems from self-loathing. When it happens these days, I do not hit things nearly as much any more. Instead, it is a quiet, seething rage that bubbles barely beneath the calm, civil exterior I try so hard to put together. I've been taught that, harnessed right, it is a very useful emotion. However, to be angry all the time is exhausting. It strips your needs to the bare minimum, but there is only so much self-abuse you can take before you crack.
A lot of times, I look at my life from above, and I swear I do not know what to feel.
I'd like to say that I have nothing. It would make the anger more righteous, more bearable. But it isn't true. I have everything, but I am nothing.