I wrote this for a writing course I willingly took, recently (in other words, today). 5 years ago, who would’ve ever even imagined that I would take a writing course voluntarily? I know, right? I’ve changed.
I’ve always wondered if there could be one person in the world, one person of 7 billion, who was absolutely unemotional. If it was possible that someone felt no anger, no sympathy, no melancholia, no joy. If that someone could be a race of their own—a powerful, dominant force—because the lack of emotion is certainly an asset, is it not?
My mother constantly reminds me about my infancy tantrums. Eyes bright, nostalgic, she would copy the wild gestures I made as a baby, continually calling for “elephant ears.” To public eyes, and even to my own nowadays, I was a normal child. Crying, shrieking, moody, and greedy.
As I aged, I lived a sweet, innocent life of a typical kid. I didn’t ponder over life, or study the wonders of the world.
Prior to my grade 7 graduation, I molded miniscule clay animals for all my classmates as a good-bye gift. Day after day, I would sit at my desk, squishing together stubborn lumps of clay and prodding at dust that somehow glued itself onto the creatures.
Perhaps I could be classified as kind-hearted. At the time, I thought I was kind-hearted, because why else would I take the time out of my life to form 30 micro-animals for a company of children I would likely never see again?
Several years ago, I was working peacefully at school when I received a desperate phone call. It was my mother, speaking with voice clogged, stumbling over every second word. Apparently, my grandfather was dreadfully ill. We were to fly back to China immediately to watch over him.
Unlike many, I processed the information incredibly quickly. It glided into my ears and straight into the depths of my brain—yet, I found no appropriate response. 30 seconds went by as I racked my head for something, anything, to say that would be equally brokenhearted-sounding as well as comforting to my mother. Before I could, however, my mother spoke again. Undoubtedly, she took my silence for a moment of grief.
My grandfather passed away not long after we flew back to China.
When we first arrived in China, there was palpable mounting tension among all members of the family. People were in panic, in their high anxiety modes. I could understand, even though I felt nowhere near the same.
My mother immediately rushed in to see my grandfather. To me, he looked good as new, smiling his infectious smile while sprawled on that uncomfortable wheelchair of his. But I knew, as we all did, that the human body is a mysterious, unfair entity.
After a few days, people began to relax. I began to relax—only because my surroundings seemed to have lost the looming aura of dark, murky fear.
Thankfully, my grandfather died peacefully. I wasn’t with him during his last moments. Even if I were, I would likely have felt little sorrow, and would in all likelihood have shed no tears.
I felt, and still feel, enormous amounts of shame. Such a great quantity I feel, that it likely outweighs any amount of grief, dejection, or mourning I could have felt.
I still wonder about that sub-race of humans, that emotionless race. Living would become so much simpler if we were to not have these feelings. Humankind could accomplish so much more. Technology would advance—unimaginably. We could be limitless, set to rule for eternity.
Then again, comes the question of everyone’s day: what are humans if not creatures with emotion?
Every day, I face a number of humans who perform the simplest acts of affection; acts that I can’t make myself do because I don’t feel the same way. I watch as people express their frustration, some more explicitly than others, yet I don’t feel that way.
But I should. And maybe I do. What can I say; perhaps I am the same. Perhaps I feel the same, deep, deep down in my heart, where I can’t actually reach consciously. I mean, I did feel shame for not feeling sorrow.
Perhaps it is simply my desire to see an emotionless world, to see this race of humans, that clouds my perception of myself. See, I can feel desire.
Or can I really?
cratious mrrp *☮to #y@u~♫ 