It might make me seem more human at this point, which is to say more sympathetic, if I were to declare that I itched and blinked and nearly swooned with a feeling of unreality. Sorry. Not so. I confess to a ghastly lack in myself. Anything I see or hear or feel or taste or smell is real to me. I am so much a credulous plaything of my senses that nothing is unreal to me. This armor-plated credulity has been continent even in times when I was struck on the head or drunk or, in one freakish adventure that need not concern this accounting, even under the influence of cocaine.
The narrator in this excerpt reveals a deep connection to his senses, claiming that everything he perceives feels entirely real to him. Despite any situations that might lead to a feeling of unreality, he emphasizes that his experiences are genuine and vivid. This acknowledgment speaks to a profound vulnerability, as he admits to being completely at the mercy of his sensory experiences.
Moreover, he reflects on his own humanity, suggesting that admitting to moments of confusion or disorientation could elicit sympathy. However, he ultimately rejects this notion, expressing a stark honesty about his unwavering belief in the reality of his perceptions, even when affected by extreme circumstances, including substance use. This highlights both his isolation and the intensity of his sensory engagement with the world.
