On the train ride to Chennai, I was reading Gregory Roberts’s Shantaram.
Near the opening, he writes: “No one and nothing could really hurt me. No one and nothing could make me very happy. I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.”
I’ve only heard of poets writing words that fit perfectly into a tune.
When I read that line, it felt surreal. As if someone had written the lyrics to the tune of my life as of December 2017.
“Tough” is questionable. I have had mental breakdowns a little more frequently than I’d like to have. I’ve had bouts of self-doubt. Again, much more frequently than I’d like to see. But I’ve certainly come to a point where no one (and nothing) is really hurting and no one (and nothing) is making me very happy. On the one hand, it feels like I’m numbed but on the other hand, it’s a stark reminder of the voluntary seclusion.
On the one hand, this complete disconnectedness is liberating. There are no more people who I feel obligated to think about or worry about. What happens, happens. My existence in their lives - if it’s warranted - is at best driven by a sense of duty. Either in a relational sense or in a humane sense.
On the other, it’s food for thoughtful concern. I have to constantly recalculate my position, my ability to sustain like this and the prerequisite disciplines and every day rituals to push this existence to as far as it can reach. To as long as I live.