That was the first emotion that surged through his body when he woke up. He felt indifferent to it all as he lay in his bed at 6:30 a.m. that Saturday morning. Of course, if apathy was the lack of emotion, was his lackadaisical attitude towards everything a not-emotion?
He didn’t care to sort through the potential paradoxical implications behind his feelings of apathy. He wasn’t the kind of person who obeyed his emotions, he believed. He did what he did, moved by little. The emotions that followed were merely a . . . hmm. Aftermath? Result? What was it?
Never mind that. It wasn’t important.
He padded to his kitchen, reached into his cupboard, and pulled out a box of Raisin Bran. Then he took a bowl and spoon, found the milk, and proceeded to eat. After that, he brushed his teeth, shaved, and took a shower.
The whole routine was perfunctory, rote. Every morning was the same thing, and he took comfort in it. It gave him a sense of security. Of course, he didn’t do it for the feelings that followed. He did it because it was a pattern. Emotions were not something he actively pursued.
He got out his tablet and did a crossword puzzle. He hated crossword puzzles. But the ennui that he so frequently found himself in caused him to do that which he would not have thought he would ever have done. And so he did a crossword puzzle, and then he watched the news. So-and-so had blown up such-and-such, and this product said that it would do that for you.
A push of the button and the TV went off. He put the remote on the floor, yawning. It was always the same thing on the news. Nothing new, nothing good. Ten minutes was more than enough. Who needed the news? Really?
He took a deep breath in, then exhaled. And repeated. There was no need to get worked up. He was not one who followed his emotions. Emotions were fickle and unsteady, not something to rely on.
Moaning, he got up and paced in his apartment. He walked into the small kitchen and pulled open the blinds, peering out to the park nearby. Men and women were walking together, some hand-in-hand, others laughing. Nobody was alone. They were all happy, together. Enjoying each other’s company. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right for them. Everything.
He stalked back into the living room and fell onto the couch, again moaning. They didn’t have the right to be happy. If they did, so could he. Couldn’t he?
Wait, wait, wait. He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. It was only natural. Just . . . just a common occurrence. Completely and utterly natural. Exactly. Because it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. It wasn’t . . . just. Yes, just. Justice needed to be executed. This was a righteous . . . righteous . . .
Yes, a righteous anger.
The great captains of our lives.
Less than three,
“Let’s not forget that the little emotions are the great captains of our lives and we obey them without realizing it.” –Vincent van Gogh