Self-Musings by Diana Bamimeke
I was sitting on my bed after a shower, and I had come out of a dark mood. This is the time I usually tend to talk to myself, to verbalise my grievances. In this monologue I talked about the possibility of my being a sentient bit of code in a game developer’s beta testing; in any case, everything I said and did and everything I’m saying and doing now could be a practice run for my character. Imagine: 200,000 years of perceived evolution and we’re no better than Five Nights at Freddy’s. I kept referencing the game developer and the beta testing in my monologue. It felt good to be the only script, the only complex combination of letters and numbers and punctuation that could feel pain and smell things, but it was sad, also, because that meant my friends and other scraps of coding I loved had no vivacity to them. They were only there for my banal enjoyment.
Then I recognised the gulf within me, then I saw that these self-musings had no worth or real contribution towards the aggrandizement of my mental health. I felt a resentment towards my friends, only a little, and though they had done nothing but bend to the psyche of a type of normality, I wanted to show that I was better than them. All this just perched on the edge of my bed! Again, today, (a later date), I did the same. This time I imagined for myself an alternate reality in which my friend group is one, single atom. I didn’t give this atom a name, I didn’t have it latch onto other atoms so it could form a sort of amiable molecule, but in this reality my friend group was an atom. I saw one person in the group fill the role of the positively charged nucleus, the chemical glue binding all of us, giving one another a reason not to fly off orbit. Then I saw the other very slightly less important friends as the electrons occupying the energy sublevels, E1, E2, E3, on it goes. They circle the beautiful and popular nucleus, grateful of its force and influence on their infinitesimal lives. Then there is me, the lonely electron, the only electron, whizzing by on a path of my own. I make my own circle, share it with no one else. I try to get a glimpse of our nucleus, but it is screened off by the others. I feel a snatch of pain in my electron heart, but ignore it and continue on.
As I finished telling myself this story, I noticed I have such a proclivity to do this: this being my invention of metaphors, or alternate realities, all ways to help me deal with my current state of being. Frequently, I think up scenarios where I am mingling casually with very famous and influential people, where my friends either feel intense jealousy or at times, heightened sadness, for overlooking who I am and the things I can do. I don’t want to say that my friends are intrinsically awful; actually the basic antithesis is true, they’re what you and I and most others call Decent People. They don’t spit on homeless people, they show affection to their families, they smile for the camera. But in their blatant acceptance of a lot of societal norms, they exhibit things that spark my chagrins. Why won’t they talk about the ubiquity of sadness and how it affects them, why do they oversimplify complex human behaviours, why do they act as if knowledge is some great plague that thank god has passed them by. Why.