One of my least favorite works is René Descartes' Meditations; when reading it, I can't help picture a man whining in an arm chair late at night, sitting in front of his fire place. Yet here I am, on not an armchair but a sofa, in front of a television instead of a fire. René and I both are stuck wondering about our own experiences. While he focuses on his own knowledge, I turn to a much darker and mysterious realm: emotions. As a strong "T", I am very ill-equipped to discern my own emotions, yet more and more I am influenced them. I feel things. Pain, loneliness, sadness, anger, frustration, even apathy. I feel them all in this swirling muck. It scares the hell out of me. Why do I feel this things? Where do these emotions come from? What am I to do about them?
I used to hold this motto that one is only allowed to complain if he has first figured out a solution. But if one has a solution, he should spend more time solving his problem, and less time complaining. Now I find myself made a hypocrite. I complain. I have no solution. I am stuck in the ever widening dissonance between my own beliefs and my emotions. My lack of tolerance for the emotional has become my own nemesis. Irony is a bitch.
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