Thoughts Unknowable, and Bridges Uncrossable

 For what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him?

-1 Corinthians 2:11


It is one of the most regrettable conditions of existence that man is an island unto himself. We live among one another, sympathizing and empathizing, yet the minds of others are altogether unknowable. A movie or book might be lauded as "relatable" because it provides what so many of us desperately desire, a window into the mind of another that reassures us that we're not so different after all. It is human nature to crave the satisfaction of knowing we are not alone in our foibles, and it is also human nature to fear deep down that we are the only one who thinks the way that we do. It is the latter delusion that I find myself laboring under far too often, and it is for that reason that I have decided to write about my particular neuroses here, in hopes that someone out there will read it and be validated in the way I have described. The only cure for loneliness of the mind is to recognize yourself in the thoughts of another.

My current major malfunction has to do with my seeming inability to finish anything I do for recreation. I am far from the only person to partake in the delicious sin of procrastination; most of my essays in both high school and college were completed no earlier than a day before the due date. I think we can all relate to the experience of putting off odious work in favor of amusements, but this is a different illness entirely. For the past six months I have found myself deliberately eschewing the things I enjoy, for some nebulous fear that when I return to the the experience will sour on me. I buy books or video game or rent movies and TV shows and simply never finish them, regardless of whether my initial experience was positive or not. I daydream about what fun it would be to play one of these games, or to watch a series I've been meaning to get into, but when the time finally comes that I can partake I get cold feet, preferring to subsist on popcorn media such as YouTube videos or endlessly refreshing social media. 

What is the root of this? Why do I find it so difficult to engage with the things I enjoy? I bought a video game last month that I had been looking forward to playing for quite some time, and when I booted it up for the first time I really enjoyed it, raving to my friends about the novel combat system and aesthetics. Since then, I haven't played it once. Why? Moreover, why am I even framing it as if I have no agency in the matter? If I had the answer to either of these questions I probably wouldn't be writing any of this, yet I do think it's worth pondering. My best guess is that I have an inherent fear of "finishing" a work, whether it be game or book or show, because of my own issues with moving on and letting go. I can't bring myself to engage with anything if I see an end in sight, because my own life is in limbo and the future scares me more than I like to admit. I hope I can overcome this mental block by moving forward in reality, but as things stand I am unmoored in both my life and my hobbies. Is it possible that everyone out there has experienced something similar? I doubt it, but there is no way to be sure. Sharing something so interior yet inane falls within a blind spot for most; we understand the necessity of baring our soul's trauma or elation, yet we shy away from revealing our inner mundane. We exalt the highest forms of emotion and expression, but it is only in the banality of existence that we can bridge the gap between minds. Loneliness is the human condition, and commonality the panacea.

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