"Anodyne Presence to Tolerate": Faulty Lenses

This isn’t intended to be enlightening, so if you don’t want to read through a chronicle of self-pity, it'd be best for you to not waste your time. It's a cathartic stream-of-consciousness.

Thursday, September 26, 2024. Chemistry began at 12:45pm, and it was 12pm. After sorting out my notes in the library, I figured I could walk to class and get a seat early on. I was nearly late on my first day of class, and I’ve been punctual ever since—the seats at the front of the class would be taken quickly, and given the lecture-based nature of it all, I genuinely didn’t want to zone out.

I walked into the nearly empty classroom. I could see someone I didn’t know all that well. Someone who got a 90/100 on a test, and wouldn’t shut up was so excited about it that he asked everyone in the class what they got. He was reading Ethic of Love: Divine Commands and Moral Obligations by Søren Kierkegaard.

Now, Kierkegaard is a hell of a guy. I respect the way he deals with the questions of anxiety and melancholy, giving them an actual purpose. It’s true that I’m not a believer in anything (right now, I don’t even believe in myself), but it’s also nice to have someone articulate neuroticism in a manner that’s not too bleak.

“Still reading Kierkegaard?” I asked, as I took a seat adjacent to him.

“I’m almost done,” he responded, producing a case of Airpods.

I swatted them out of his hand before he put them on, and chastised him—I asked one question, and you can’t bother to look someone in the eye when you respond? Why the hell would you talk to me if only to ask how I did on a test?

Well, actually, I didn’t swat them out of his hand—I sat there in silence, a message crystal clear to me: I was trying to enlighten myself through a conversation—an enlightenment that I struggled to obtain in remote solitude.

That was why I started this Substack, although it’s becoming more of an opiate than I’d like to admit. Did I really think I was immune to the tendrils of a notification bell? Did I really think that refraining from Instagram/Twitter/TikTok would make me less susceptible to spending my hours doom-scrolling through this place? Quelling my mental bruxism by writing didn’t mean that I was any closer to clarity.

Why couldn’t I have been born with some gumption? It’s hard for me to see any redeeming qualities in myself, and there’s a tacit knowledge that I justify my continued existence through some future ideal. I rationalize the waste of my present moments through the hope that maybe, maybe someday, people will see my unrealized potential. That’s what I miss about high school: the report cards about how “[Ophelia] is an extremely bright and creative student who would benefit from adopting more organized learning strategies”, as I maintained that Achilles heel—and my sense of self—by self-handicapping at every opportunity. I really do miss people telling me that I just need to be more conscientious, that I already have the intellect needed to realize my aspirations.

I did have gumption at one point. I’d read doorstopper books in a day or so, treating knowledge like sand in a sieve. I miss my eighth grade self who’d read Lovecraft, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Kite Runner, Hans Christian Andersen, Brothers Grimm—while listening to that Make Yourself album on the way home. I knew I’d make myself someday.

I didn’t know anything.

What changed? Was it Covid? Pfizer? How should I externalize the locus of control, such that I can maintain an illusion of intrinsic value? Sure, I still read Sapiens, The Secret History of the American Empire, and 12 Rules for Life during that quarantine period. I still read Psycho and Brave New World afterwards, but my inclination to epitomize intelligence and scholarship morphed into an abstract recognition of their importance.

The classroom filled up with more and more people, until one of his friends showed up. He removed his AirPods, and began conversing with said friend.

It’s getting more difficult for me to believe in the archetype of the lonely nerd. Intellect and knowledge aren’t inversely related to social skills, and I would know because I clearly have neither—some people have both intelligence and a compelling personality. At least, some people can really compartmentalize and opt-out of their interests in order to fit within society.

It’s still difficult for me to recall the specifics of the conversation, mainly because classical philosophy and anything to do with antiquity eludes my understanding. I do apologize, but I’m still struggling to retrieve the bits and pieces of today’s event and stitch them into a coherent memory.

“So… Kierkegaard, are you reading him for fun?” I asked. 

“Yeah, I read for fun. I would never read for class,” he curtly responded without eye contact. 
...
“So, Kierkegaard—did he mention the individual and the public?” I asked again, after a few minutes.

“I mean, yeah, but he’s more of a theologian. The works not under pseudonyms are all theological,” he responded. 
...
“So you mentioned Michael Huemer once, right? I’m curious, do you subscribe to ethical intuitionism?” I asked again, after a few minutes. 

“Yeah, I believe in objective morality… wait, you believe in subjective morality? Eww!” he responded. 

Jackpot! Finally, a conversation!

“On what basis would you be predicating an objective morality?” I asked. 

“God, the categorical imperative, the divine,” he replied. “Wouldn’t intuition tell you that, for instance, stabbing a baby 27 times is immoral?”

“Sure, but the interpretation of that is still subjective, isn’t it? People do still kill.”
 
“Actually, serial killers know they’re being immoral, but cannot control themselves.”

“A lot of them don’t; Peter Sutcliffe thought he was guided by the voice of God.”

“Are you really going to take moral advice from a mentally ill person?”

“People will deem attacks on civillians as pretty ‘based’.”

“Yeah, you don’t think they’re contrarians?”

Sorry, but I don’t think it was a niche opinion to have supported the bombing of Dresden, or of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. While I wish that the inherent value of human life was a universal tether towards morality, deaths are abstracted as collateral damage all the time. Intuitions can be subverted all the time.

Of course, I wasn’t able to say any of this, because I was at a loss for words. He continued,

“Have you read Spinoza? Aquinas? The Platonic ideal? If you haven’t, I can’t explain anything to you.”

Then he mentioned the idea of the Good, and I can’t recall if it was Spinoza that mentioned it. Something about an all-powerful quality to the universe, like a God. Apparently, someone could also believe in transcendence, or rationality. Yet, rationality often fails, doesn’t it? We have the identifiable victim effect for a reason.

“So, which God do you believe in?”

“The Abrahamic one. I mean, scripture is all literature.”

Literature has an artistic connotation, and there’s an implication that everything is figurative. However, I’m not completely sure that it was all initially intended this way. It could’ve been, and I think that’s how it’s best interpreted—but at the wee age of eight, I explicitly remember my teacher telling us all that “we were created out of mud.” I don’t think this makes religion worthless by any means, but it’s also not accurate to say that it’s unanimously interpreted in a metaphorical manner.

“I’m not sure if it was originally interpreted as literatu-!” I was about to say.

“Scripture isn’t literature? Are you serious? Have you read Fear and Trembling? Have you read this? Have you…” he began, but all I could hear was, “you’re stupid.”

You’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re—

My eyes were beginning to burn. The gaps in my knowledge became increasingly salient, and I had never felt so unintelligent in my life. I’m the reason why I can’t converse with people. If only he wasn’t speaking so quickly, if I wasn’t understanding so slowly. Knowledge wasn’t like sand through a sieve; it was like water through a colander.

Class began, and I made sure to keep my eyes on the notebook on the table, lest I started crying in class. Fortunately, class ended before my lacrimal glands gave up. To be fair, thermochemistry really is such a poignant topic; we learned about how Hess’ law is a state function. I don’t think life is—perhaps all isn’t well that ends well, and why would it end well? After these eighteen years, hasn’t life effectively ended already for me? Isn’t this an extended wait for a post-mortem report?

Yet, something tells me that there is still a redeeming future ahead. I can’t be a complete airhead, can I? Do I have to cut my losses and settle for the cold comfort of “I might not be intelligent, but at least I’m kind”? I’m harmless, that’s what I am—my self-deprecation and awareness of all my shortcomings may be my only saving grace. I rarely get the impression that I can choose my social interactions. No matter the place, I feel as if I am vying for someone’s time and attention, as if I have to prove myself to some ultimately superior being.

I know that all of this sounds very melodramatic, and it is, but on the walk back to my place, I couldn’t help but think of my inability to maintain my friendships. I’m not really a friend to anyone, I’m an unexpected guest that’s being tolerated out of courtesy. I don’t have a personality; I’m the equivalent of a dry powder inhaler—vaguely sweet, but ultimately a whole lot of nothing. I can only exist as a shadow, as someone to be outshined.

This knowledge, the ensuing lamentation, the melancholy—it all removes me from my anodyne nature, and places me in a state of graveness. Pensive rumination and sulking, where a repeating mantra weathers my peace of mind—and eventually, others’ sense of patience. No matter the pre-emptive apologies, it’s like water through my fingers. People have joked that I seem to be apologizing for my existence, and to an extent, I am. Perhaps it’s an insurance policy, just to avoid earning anyone’s ire.

---

Even when I try to say something important, it all sounds meaningless in the end. A memory often comes to mind.

We had a project in my senior year, wherein one needed to analyze a few news articles through the lens of a chosen topic (I chose change). On my third one, I was having some trouble. My first draft had positive feedback, but I failed to emphasize the lens itself. I figured I’d ask one of the other teachers (who I’ll refer to as Mr. Halford) teaching the course, for some further advice on how to improve my work.

“Who’d even choose change?” I jested. “You know, anyone who chooses it is a complete idiot!”

I found the irony very amusing. Remember how Oedipus Rex would give speeches about how the man who killed Laius, ought to be punished by having his eyes gouged out, and then it turns out that Oedipus was the man? It was tragic, but in the same way, it was ironic, like rain on a wedding day.

“Did you choose this topic?”

“Yes..” I answered. What a witty manner of prefacing the questions I was about to ask, I thought to myself. Alanis Morissette would be proud.

“Then why are you bitching about it?” he asked.

All of this might’ve been my fault, but that does little to stop me from replaying this memory over and over again. That must be what I seem like. That’s what I’m doing right now, isn’t it? Do I have anything worthwhile to say? Every time I try to graduate from being the ineffectual person that I am, I only end up burdening people with my presence.

It’s said that college is meant to be a new chapter in one’s life, but I don’t know if a change of circumstances can truly change this essence of who I am. I’m lurking in the dark auditorium, watching my life play out. Waiting.

When a girl at our school made an attempt on her life (fortunately, she lived), the aftermath was a pervading rhetoric about how, actually, the whole school was the victim. Never mind that someone felt hopeless enough to resort to such a drastic course of action. Let’s all turn her into a tabloid article—an object for us to interpret and gossip about—feign grave demeanors for two days, and then pretend as if nothing ever happened. That’s when I realized: we are too embedded in existence to neatly remove ourselves from the equation. I don’t mean anything drastic, but even waiting for the natural end means that one is only setting someone else’s subjectivity in stone, as opposed to being a subject of their own. That’s the difference between life and non-existence: being an agent of change, as opposed to a static abstraction to ponder.

For what it was worth, change really is the best lens. The question is, how does one become an agent who instills change, rather than someone who can be changed? If I want to experience reality as a subject, in an esoteric sense, I have to do away with my self-concept.

One escapist purpose of interpersonal experience seems to be the avoidance of fully grappling with your self-concept, by letting others be the focus of your attention—letting them address your mental bruxism for a little while. They will interpret you, and tell you who you are, fulfilling some vicarious desire to be informed about yourself—that’s why I loved reading those report cards (and also why personality tests are my kryptonite).

I want to be appreciated by intellectuals, as it would mean that I must have some intellectual substance to appreciate. I want to be befriended by others, as it would mean that I am amiable.

In the play “No Exit”, we hear Sartre’s oft-quoted line,

Every character is seeking to be defined by some ideal they hold dear, but there are no mirrors in Hell. Garcin wants to be thought of as a courageous man (he was actually a deserter), Estelle wants to return to an ideal of innocence (even though she threw her child out of the balcony), and Inez wants to be considered as an evil person. As such, Estelle seeks to actualise herself through Garcin, Garcin seeks to actualize himself through Inez, and Inez seeks to actualize herself through Estelle. This actualization doesn’t occur, as everyone wants to further their own self-concept, and will experience everything else through said wanting. That’s why Hell is other people—you’re eternally an object to be manifested through another’s lens.

Clearly, this wish can colour one’s perception beyond their conscious awareness. I was trying to derive some description of myself through that conversation in Chemistry; because I didn’t receive an immediate affirmation of my intellect, I decided—unwittingly, enough—to hear a rejection of it. You’re stupid.

Beliefs aren’t just propositions in a basket. They have far-reaching tendril-like implications that guide the rest of your experience, like lines to color into. We’re most familiar with ideological possession in the forms of political or religious extremism, but confirmation bias is ever-present. If I want to analyze everything within the lens of whether I’m a burden, that already restricts the realm of possible answers I will get.

To see, I’m choosing what to ignore. In crying about how I was "pwned” in Chemistry, I’ve ignored the fact that in one of my other classes, I thought to hand one of my ill classmates a packet of tissues, much to his gratitude.

At the same time, one isn’t what they want to be, but what they do—there is a chasm between ideation and action. If you act on something, you’re no longer the object of your attention. Perhaps, in this manner, I can remove myself from the equation, for all practical intents and purposes—oddly enough, to become less self-centred, just to make myself, instead of searching for a definition.