I woke up with a panic in my heart. It’s the second time it happened. I have been meaning to write of my sorrows and worries somewhere I’m anonymous as I have nobody to talk to anymore, to disclose the dread of my soul. It’s because of me and my anxiety. I gradually withdrew from my friends and acquaintances—I could no longer deal with their happiness and optimism. Their dreams and ambitions make me feel even more helpless and scared, these in turn provoked the closeted secret that I am in fact ‘unfit for this world’ as Pessoa would say; Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest’ has no ring for me, anybody I see who are happier and eager to own the world than my pathetic self would need no permission to overtake me. Indeed, this is a race to the end and I don’t intend to win it. The natural and biological part of my being laments over the weakness of my spirit, it knows that I am good and I could but also that I would never claim for greatness simply because . . . I am me. I am exhausted of “life” before it even begun. I literally have the scars of the battles I have avoided. I scramble to conceal my struggles because really, what are my problems compared to the problems of other people? This is so when my innermost problem is nowhere to be found; it is anywhere and anything and anyone. I am a petty excuse for a human being that has to think, feel, will, and love. The breaths I emit are no longer the breath of life but the sighs of resignation I often heard from the wretched people I wished not to become.
These sighs of resignation are not all I have given. I lived, for a while, to resist the spectre of my own anguish. I had a great ambition not only for myself but for the people—the marginalized and the oppressed—to be free. I thought, for a time, I was part of something meaningful that fought for the collective ambition of changing the system, freedom from alienation, a compassionate advocacy for the lowly, and an intellectual lifestyle. Together we answered the question for whom and this served as a force for us to continue the struggle. The fiery passion ebbed. Hate and alienation ensued with the critical antithesis, but who is the mass; then resigned to estrangement and sadness all over again. Once, I was called a comrade and whenever I saw a comrade we’d exchange a nod of encouragement—now became estrangement and indifference. My skin which acquired colour through marching and protests against the bureaucratic capitalism—the bourgeoisie—now paled and grayed once again. The mass of people whom I learned to love and fought from my social phobia are once again the main trigger of my dread. It has evolved into a corporate dread as I am streaming towards the corporate environment.