I hate finding my own limitations. A lot of the time I think we humans imagine ourselves to be just like characters from fantasy. The only limitations placed on them is by the author. Maybe that’s why we get appalled with the god of their story mutilates them or weakens them. How can they do that to their creation?
But real life sucks and we would despise a perfect character – because we have no hope of obtaining that existence. We all yearn for utopia; we all know it’s impossible (those old enough, at least).
What would you think of yourself if you lacked the ability to feel pleasure? Nothing really brought any excitement to you. You just encountered all things in a narrow spectrum of pleasure. That’s what it’s like now for me. I think it’s partly from the medicine I’ve been on and partly from just growing older and colder. I don’t feel like a bad person, only a tired person with no escape rope. I see my future and it’s so plain. It’s better than negative, surely, but it’s also a reminder that I have limitations in my life.