The Empty Heart

If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.

I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my greatest sins and fears, and give them the feeling that I understand them and would move even the most unreachable levers just so that, simply by having met me, they might become happier. And that’s despite the fact that we only met for the first time five minutes ago.

In the past, I was almost proud of this ability—to actively switch off my shyness, lethargy, and social phobia and suddenly flip them into their complete opposite. Thanks to a trick I taught myself, which I call spontaneous mental distraction, and which works by thinking about something completely different just before doing something stupid or illogical, I do the boldest, craziest, and most charming things without having the chance to reflect on them beforehand. There simply isn’t enough time.

Those actions then feel completely natural and not wrong at all. And afterward I’m always glad I dared to do them, because it allows you to reach people who would otherwise have remained closed off to you. It’s fun to bend the world to my advantage this way. And I once thought that this absolute accessibility made me a better, more complete—and yes, also more popular—person.

Because of this unconventional character trait, I quickly became a central part of many different circles of friends, some of which only formed because of me. I enjoyed it when people desperately wanted to do things with me, competed for my favor at parties, or fell in love with me simply because they believed I was the first and only person on this planet who truly understood them and their problems. The feeling of emotional superiority eventually became normal to me.

But an oppressive truth that I initially dismissed as nonsense slowly became a sad certainty over time: I am a ghost. An empty heart wrapped in flesh without the slightest trace of empathy. A bus full of loudly wailing orphaned children could explode in front of me and it wouldn’t just be that I didn’t care—I would actually be annoyed that the little brats chose this exact moment to burn in front of me and block my way.

The only reason I can make friends with other people so quickly and easily is that they mean nothing to me. And if I do happen to take a particular liking to someone, I analyze them for so long and so intensely until I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of the fascination that drives me crazy—only to drop them afterward like a hot potato. Because I’ve drained everything from them. And then they become, at best, boring or, at worst, unbearable.

When I look back today, thanks to social media, at the various groups of friends that I once thought I was a fundamental part of, many of them still exist—just without me.

The photos that once showed their faces pressed closely together beside mine now have to make do, years later, with one less forced smile. Friends with whom I spent drunken summer nights and spun countless legends became, as if I had never existed, strangers from one day to the next.

I essentially sucked them dry and moved on. Like a ruthless wanderer of emotions who, just a moment ago, was still in the middle of his loved ones—feeling, celebrating, and fucking—and the next moment, when no one was paying attention, had suddenly disappeared.

Never seen again, on the way to the next adventure, only to pull the same stunt as before—just with different faces. At least I brought a few strangers together, so maybe my hunger for feelings had some good side to it, I lie to myself.

Sometimes I wonder whether I even possess any kind of character at all or whether I’m simply a soulless shapeshifter who only ever reflects whatever brings him closest to his current goal. Ideally into the favor, thoughts, or genitals of the person in front of me.

Always the right answer ready, always a cheeky remark at hand, always the correct balancing act between compassion, seriousness, and humor. And if I do give the wrong response once in a while and feel the inner pain of the resulting mental setback, then I learn from it, adjust a few inner screws, and correct them on the next attempt. But is that really me?

The question of who one actually is is as old and clichéd as life itself. Perhaps I’m simply a Frankenstein’s monster cobbled together from book quotes, television wisdom, and sayings I once picked up from someone I happened to admire—pretending to be a human being, when in truth I am nothing more than a parasite somehow kept alive, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others.

Then I pounce like a starving predator on the first depressed-looking victim who crosses my path, tear them apart skin and hair and bone, and indulge myself in their remains so that something—anything—finally fills me again. A new body, a new thought, a new warmth. Anything other than the tasteless nothingness to which I’ve grown accustomed for so long.

But the hint of satisfaction lasts only a short while and disappears as quickly as it came. Because nothing can fill the seemingly endless emptiness inside me—especially not another person who only wanted to be loved, held, and saved, and who is now nothing more than a vague memory in my continuous bloodlust.

So I move on again, disgusted with myself, toward the next pretty face. Hoping that this time everything will be different. Surely it will be.

Monday, 27 February 2023