Sometimes, I worry I'm a heartless person. Emotions feel flat to me—happiness, sadness, even the smallest pleasures. It’s as if I’m standing outside a vibrant painting, seeing all the colors, but feeling none of them. Yet, strangely, I cry. Not for the emotions themselves, but for the intricate stories hidden beneath them. It’s the context, the truth that moves me.
This is the lens through which I see people: not in the emotions they perform, but in the truth they cannot always express.
The Stories We Perform
I see it everywhere. On social media, people perform their lives—a staged cup of coffee, a sunset hyped to feel extraordinary. It’s a constant striving for significance, a need to convince themselves as much as anyone else that the feeling is real.
This pattern repeats in personal achievements. We craft stories from everything—small victories, experiences, and struggles—not because the event is extraordinary, but because the story makes us feel special. This performance is often for others, too. We elevate the supposed uniqueness of others—their talent, accomplishments, or choices—even when the act is ordinary. We do this to motivate ourselves, to feel inspired, or to compare.
I’ve met people who told me, “You are so talented.” And I felt nothing. Not because I lack skill, but because the stories that make others feel inspired often feel hollow to me. This need to feel special can even extend to childhood memories. I’ve seen people take very ordinary moments from their childhood and craft stories around them as if they were extraordinary. In their storytelling, it becomes clear: the moment itself was not special. Their minds are remixing real memories with images and ideas they have seen in movies, books, or elsewhere. The memory is no longer pure; it is influenced, layered, and constructed.
People often ask me to share my childhood memories. Most of the time, I tell them I have none. Not because others’ lives are more exciting, but because I don’t feel the need to coat my ordinary memories with stories just for the fleeting satisfaction of feeling special.
Borrowed Narratives
This pattern extends to the stories people hold close. Many claim a fictional character “understands me,” but they aren't truly connecting with the character's story. They are using it to justify their own experiences:
“I am not cruel. The world made me this way.” “I am misunderstood, like this character.”
It’s less about empathy and more about borrowing a story to play the victim, or to make sense of themselves without facing the choices they’ve made. Life becomes a series of narratives meant to highlight uniqueness, moral justification, or emotional significance—rather than truth.
We do the same with our heroes—parents, teachers, mentors. We elevate them to almost divine status, as if their sacrifices make them inherently extraordinary. Gratitude becomes reverence. But this act of making someone a “hero” is often less about them and more about us. It frames our life as guided, chosen, and special. The admiration is part of constructing a beautiful narrative about who we are.
The Villain-Victim Trap
I see the same dynamic in relationships. When couples separate, the story is often clear: one is the villain, the other the victim. Each becomes the hero of their own narrative and the author of the other’s failure.
Yes, parents influence us. Yes, partners hurt us. But rarely is it pure villainy. More often, it is incompatibility, differing values, selfishness, and the inertia of comfort zones. Most breakups happen immaturely. Rather than ending things with honesty, people cling to a narrative that preserves their ego. They label their partner as a villain, themselves as a victim, and dramatize the story to justify choices, avoid responsibility, and feel morally superior.
Clarity and Uncommon Empathy
Sometimes, seeing all this feels isolating. I am not carried by emotion; I stand apart, observing patterns others cannot see. At moments, I feel heartless. Yet, at others, I feel deeply—because I am moved not by performance, but by reality. By the invisible currents that shape a person’s choices and pain.
I don’t create stories to feel special. I don’t perform achievements or emotions for others. I simply see. And in that seeing, I notice the hollowness behind much of what is called “extraordinary” or “unique.”
Perhaps being “heartless” is not a lack of feeling, but a refusal to accept the illusion of performance as truth. To see beyond the mask is not cruelty. It's an uncommon kind of empathy—the ability to witness the world, the people in it, and their stories—in all their imperfection, contradiction, and hidden depth.
In this space, I have learned to hold the paradox of humanity: cruel and kind, selfish and loving, flawed yet striving. Observing without illusion. Feeling without performance. That is the clarity I carry.
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