I Don’t Believe My Hands Anymore

Confessing my fractured self through trembling hands—resisting illusions, embracing despair, inventing language to survive, and silent agony of The Double’s relentless gaze

Note to readers: Another tendentious, real-time monologue from which you may get nothing but a tedious headache. If so, abandon reading from here. Apologies for this long, self-tormenting philosophy of The Double. And one more request I would like to make: please consider my writing as Confessional Phenomenology. It is a mode of exposure, not explanation; a bleeding out, not a building up. It’s not an essay or generic writing but pure confession of the hallucinated man! Once again, this is not an essay. Not a doctrine. Not a neat philosophy—but a prolonged confession—agonized, derailed, doubling inwards like once-stung Laocoön.

I have never comforted myself. Even in my most tormented times, reading and reaching to unnerve philosophy has echoed off the wall of my being. I have read a lot. I have “methinized” a lot. And I have always tried to put the right words to pro…