Heracles, that post really resonated with me. While I have no assumptions that one can actually be 'on the same wavelength' with another, the complexity of your descriptions of what you consider your peculiarities registered with me; I think our way of articulating things might be somewhat aligned--even down to the very specific hallmark of the jaded: putting things in quotes a good bit..it's a 'technique' I employ a lot. It's an attempt to shield myself from coming across as too vulnerable, or yes, pretentious. To appear earthier, ..more cynical I suppose.
Anyway, none of this is peculiar to me. I, too, have received guff in the past for my overly elaborate manner of speaking, but you might be hypervigilant to criticism like myself and unnecessarily perseverate on past criticisms. Indeed I've wondered if it's my own narcissism and odd blend of perfectionism, or mere overcompensation - a sort of emotional armor. I mean speaking in a peculiar way is natural to me too, so there's that element as well. I don't believe it's all affected on my part.
My melancholy, my existential anxiety, whatever it should be called, is ultimately ineffable. It might not be possible to put it into words, either it's intensity or effective tone.
Yes, certainly. For me, my neuroses are too multi-headed, 'nuanced', and labyrinthine to fully convey into words, but I do try and take a crack at it to partial success sometimes. The author David Foster Wallace is probably the closest one gets to illuminating some of the murk in my brain that I experience that's so hard to put into words---then again, this is neither unique or uncommon to relate to this author, like everyone and his brother who relates to Salinger or Kafka. I get close to some locus of control, but there's always a small void left that escalates..grows. Though for me, it's not the despair that's hard to convey. It's the otherworldly, surreal nature of my life (due to whatever personality disorder/mental hindrance) that adds yet more layers of confusion. Or as you put it, ineffability. Granted, now days are more markedly dreary than simply strange.
Schopenhauer, even if he spoke perfect English, could never explain the feelings of his heart of thoughts of his mind to Gilligan. Hell, maybe he couldn't to your average magna cum laude psychiatrist. I suppose that's just the way it is, and always will be. Maybe we'll always be alone in our own unique angst.
I don't think so, as far as the always being alone in our unique angst. I'm usually the pessimist of any scenario, but here I'll be at least slightly optimistic. Even if you feel like, in the present, you're the only voice in the room vocalizing the most esoteric, alienating $#%^, like-minded folk will slowly trickle down. Sometimes you just have to be the first one to articulate the doubts, confusion, whatever - and there may be a long waiting period. There's all these little microcosms of people out there living their similar private hells that eventually surface and mushroom once you've got the composure to be the first one to broadcast the feelings. This is assuming one doesn't fall completely to the clutches of mental illness and become so far-gone as to speak in Mansonian doublespeak. Although, hell, even Charles Manson has moments of great lucidity and a large, devoted cult following on YouTube.
I know the feeling though. I feel so abstruse in my way of thinking that it's become quite difficult to relate to others. But I keep searching for a sliver of relatability, and I do in fact find it from time to time. Even if the internet with its trove of cultish opportunities leaves me cold. It's doubly alienating when I feel occasional moments of being an outsider even among outsiders.
I'm sure I also come off as affectedly melodramatic in trying to explain "my angst".
I feel this way a good bit too. It's hard to determine how much of my 'drama' is the byproduct of too much privilege and consequently alone time in my head. I'm lead to believe a fair portion of my angst is called for (even though I do not verbalize it in everyday interaction; almost exclusively through the anonymity of the internet), as I genuinely do torture myself in my thoughts--trying to suppress it as long as possible for the sake of not unloading on anyone, and because I can hear all the hateful, cynical inner criticisms I've accumulated,--until I explode. But I'm not a fan of compromise, so I feel no overwhelming urge to curb waxing histrionically on things when I get in these states. The feelings are certainly 100% genuine I can say, at the very least. And they require great expenditure of time to disclose.