The problem with your emotions, well, okay, my emotions, is precisely that – they are unwieldy. They reside in you, seem to belong to you, and yet act in surprisingly unpredictable and uncontrollable ways that they make you wonder whether you have them or they have you. Okay, I slipped back into that presumptive second person pronoun there. But that’s not because I assume there is some totalizing universality to be gleaned from my measly, albeit acute, emotional debacle, but because I experience an epistemological disjunction whenever I face a problem, splitting into oh-so-analytical-and-ever-so-sensibly-judgmental me and sitting-in-the-corner-blubbering-hysterically-after-getting-into-yet-another-problem me. It sounds like this super-ego-esque me should have been there in the first place, saving the blubbering idiot from making the mistake that got us both in this mess, but oh no, more often than not, it’s that over-analytical windbag that blows a hole into which I fall and get stuck.
Hmm, I see several strains of thoughts emerging here, but wait, there goes that smart-ass again, so shut up me. But seriously, the pathological vocabulary and attitude exhibited in the previous paragraph deserve further probing. I should pause here and ask, why is it that delving into one’s psychosomatic self is so alluringly consuming? Everyone’s a flapping narcissist and no one can stop talking about oneself given the chance? Perhaps. (Oh, wait, just me?) No one else is going to care as much or know as much, so this is a unique opportunity to sound and even be authoritative without having to resort to a long list of bibliography? Self indulgent fun and illusory empowerment, yay! Or is it just another deferment tactic? Deferring the moment of pain as you distance yourself from your emotions analyzing them rather than experiencing them, deferring the moment of work that looms behind your cocoon of self-misery, and so on.
Enough meta on meta for now. Back to the unwieldiness of emotions. I mean later.