Or maybe the reason why I don't like to write is because I always seem to come up with the most depressing and moody openings ever, totally sucking all momentum and energy out of whatever mental roller coaster I might be riding on.
I've recently gotten a new pair of spectacles six years after my last pair was made. I've been noticing that my left eye is really strained when looking at screens for a while, and wearing my specs for a few hours does fatigue me. My eyesight hasn't necessarily gotten much worse, if any, but maybe the focal point or whatever is the technically correct jargon has shifted in the six years since. I initially had only wanted the lenses redone, but I'm really starting to think I was upsold by the friendly attendant into getting a whole new pair entirely. I wish I caught that in the moment, because I'm really not in a position where I have any money to spend. I'm just perpetually physically uncomfortable. Malls are always way too fucking hot despite the air con, and I'm always in a sticky, gross sweat when I'm out and about. I also had dinner just before the visit, which sends all the blood rushing to my face and head for some reason. I'm terribly embarrassed about the mess I left on their systems because of my fucking disgusting oily, sweaty face. I actually lost sleep that night thinking about that.
It's a "minor" thing, but on occasion, I do find myself wondering about a fear I've had a decade or so ago. I feared being a normie. I feared being aimless. I feared having to fight myself to get out of bed every morning to go to a dead end job just to make enough to scrape by, and have that consume most, if not all of my waking hours, effectively defining my life until I retire. I wonder what motivated people to wake up and go flip burgers, or wipe tables. Unlike most fears from that long ago, these ones really didn't diminish much, if any, and they still affect me just as much if I paid them any heed, because I still don't have answers to those questions. Having been upsold a new frame, I also catch myself wondering, "how could people bring themselves to do this to others?" Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm a saint, but I've always had trouble knowingly hurting other people, much less to their face. I don't say this with any grudge or ill will; I genuinely wonder how people can bring themselves to do this. Do they not have some sort of a psuedo physical barrier in their mind that prevents them from hurting people, like I do? Are they the weird ones, or me? And where does this barrier in my mind come from, if it's so abnormal? It makes me so, so scared of putting myself out there in the world, of having a job, because not only does it mean that I'll be putting myself out there to be eaten alive and taken advantage of by people less kind, but also that I'll most likely be put in a position to use social pressure and other such unfathomables to eat others alive in the same fashion. It is a world and a cruel game I cannot even begin to comprehend, and quite frankly, I consider it a blessing that I remain ignorant of it, the odd instances where I get upsold something notwithstanding.
The store I went to, a Japanese brand common in Singapore whom I shall not name because I don't want to feed Google's profiling on me, is known for their super quick 20–min turnaround time, but because of my... fang guang? Astigmatism, I think it's called in English? My lenses have to be custom made to order, and a waiting period of 10 (working?) days is usually typical. My new specs came, and when I tried them on, they felt weird on the spot. I thought it was something I'd eventually get used to, but that feeling of comfort never came. Since the custom prescription specs were still under warranty and they offered the service, I went back for a re–test, and the person that tested me this time revealed to me that I had trouble discerning image sharpness on my right eye, perhaps because I was already fatigued when I took the test, or perhaps because of "lazy eye"? And it's just soured my inner thoughts and dialogue for several days till now.
When I went to bed that night, I was just... angry, at myself. I didn't know until that second test, but I pretty much realised immediately I had focus issues on my right eye immediately after the woman pointed it out to me. I have to blink a few times and "screw in" my face around my right eye SO MUCH just to get sharp vision from it. It made me realise that I've just been living, writing, driving, designing, thinking, over a cloud of blur and fog all this while, physical and mental. I just felt super discouraged and angry at my own situation. More and more, especially in the past seven or so months that I've been somewhat focused on myself and my own needs, I've come to find that I'm a rather sensitive person. I'm a bit of an emotional sponge. I get immensely swayed by art. Being around news genuinely upsets me. I tend to cry when others share heartfelt stories. I can't stand listening to the forced enthusiasm in radio ads. I'm a light sleeper. Apparently I have a sharp sense of hearing, and maybe that's what makes me speak so softly and what makes my family appear so uncouth and rough to me. To carry this into the extent of caricature, I have extremely sensitive skin, and I'm guessing my sinus is my body being overprotective. I don't know how much of this is related to █, but maybe things that don't bother most people, like our stupidly jerky automatic transmission buses, or the sticky sweat from the ridiculous humidity of Singapore, affects me more than others because I'm more sensitive to sensory things. Sometimes I wonder why my soul isn't light or fragile enough to be carried away or shredded by a passing breeze. Sometimes I feel so out of it just by simply existing that I think I ought to be protected and preserved in a controlled, cool and dry environment, like I'm a critically endangered species brought here into this harsh, inhospitable climate via time travel.
Where the fuck is this post going. Forget my soul; my train of thought feels like it could float away off the tracks on its own, like it were a tube balloon filled with helium and folded into the rough shape of a train.
Because I think I'm so sensitive, I think I need a higher level of care that is only possible with a rich, affluent lifestyle. I wish I could just tell people to fuck off and not talk to me without having to coddle their feelings, and just drop all formalities and just get to the point if I absolutely need to engage, just so people don't drain me so much. I wish my home could be air conditioned 24/7, just so I can feel like I exist in the moment and in my body when the heat and humidity reaches the deadly levels of a typical Singaporean afternoon. I wish I didn't feel so nervous, so rushed, like I had all the time in the world at a better equipped facility when testing my eyesight, just so I wouldn't have to stumble through my life through a constant blur. So many other things I could possibly say, but can't think of because my brain is constantly in a fog, too. I can't help but to wonder, if I had the means to better take care of myself, if the hundreds of small discomforts and thousands of inconveniences in my life just vanished, how much more productive and better of a person I could be. The art I could produce. The ideas I could have. To be the fullest version of myself. I just wish I had the magical means to make this all go away, if only for a few minutes, just so I can see and think clearly in a few moments of bliss, instead of this ambiguous hell I'm forced to stumble through on autopilot and guesses, instead of something I can actually see and feel for what they truly are. How good that must feel, knowing things and making informed decisions. I might just feel like I'm a whole different person. Maybe I wouldn't hate life so much and not want to die. I've always been told that wanting to die is an illness, after all. As crazy as that sounds to me, maybe there's a world wherein they're right about that.
In an unbelievable coincidence, both my slippers and sports shoes broke within... a month, or two? of each other, and as a basic ass man, that amounts to a grand total of 100% of the shoes I own. I want to say that that's because of all the walks I've been taking ever since quitting my job, but it's probably because I weigh something stupid like 120kgs. Despite being poor and with literally no income to even feed myself, I think my sensitivity means that I can really tell the difference between cheap products and expensive, premium ones—something I'm sure my mother will be proud to proclaim as having been inherited from her. I also hate the idea of slop on a philosophical level, and for something that will ideally last me a long time in a world ever more leaning towards disposable intangibles, I would very much like to spend a lot of money on something that's not only high–quality, but that will also last me a long time. I like old clothes and shoes because I grow into them and they stretch around me. They're comfortable. I get to form muscle memory with them. I still get finger orgasms when I type on my mechanical keyboard I really want to name but also really shouldn't. ...look, I really don't have a grand point to make with this. Good stuff is good.
We spent quite a long time in a brand name shoe store, and a young, maybe part time student attendant was super patient and helpful with us. But because we're poor, we were only there to ascertain sizes and which models to get; my sister thinks she can get the shoes cheaper if she were to get them from an outlet store in Changi. And so after all that hard work, we wound up not buying anything, and I felt SUPER AWFUL for that. I lost sleep over that, too. Part of me wanted to at least leave them a good review, but I don't super remember her name. █
I wonder why I'm such a softie. I really wonder how in the hell I've come to live for 30 long years in this harsh, insensitive, sometimes downright cruel world. I'm also in another brain fog and probably not thinking clearly, so I can't tell how melodramatic I'm being over something that shouldn't bother most people that are hard enough to thrive in this world.
But yeah, a week later, we went back and bought both a pair of really fucking good slippers and super fucking good sports shoes. The former are so good that even my sister felt stunned from the moment her foot touched the slippers, and immediately made her perfectly adequate to that point slippers feel like they came from a trash heap. She describes those slippers by saying, "it's as though my feet were being massaged as I walk!", and frankly, I don't disagree with her. The sports shoes didn't have shoelaces, which blew my mind because I've always thought that shoelaces were the stupidest things ever in a world where Velcro is a thing, even when I was in primary school. These shoes were advertised with the tagline, "never touch your shoes again!", and from having tried them on in the store, they sure as hell weren't lying. My mind was blown away by the fact that these shoes exist, and they're super comfortable to wear, too. So much so that they almost make this ultra sensitive shut–in want to leave his home for something, just so he can have an excuse to wear the shoes.
I suppose I should do the online diary thing and actually post a photo of my new shoes.
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