After cutting them away, he would become duller, blinder, slower. Things others could see through at a glance might take him several looks to understand. Principles others could grasp from a single sentence might take him half a day to puzzle over.
Things others found childish and ridiculous, he might take seriously.
Was it worth it?
He asked himself.
Whether it was worth it depended on the cost and the gain. The cost was losing his clarity; the gain was possibly finding his feelings again.
Clarity was something he had accumulated over a thousand years. It was his toughest armor.
With it on, he would not be hurt. Without it, he might feel pain. But now, he felt neither pain nor itch, neither cold nor heat.
Wearing that armor, he was like a man made of iron, walking through the mortal world. Nothing in the world could touch him, and he would not touch the world either. He was safe, but he was also lonely.
What he wanted was not merely safety. He wanted someone to be able to touch him, even if it hurt.
He decided to cut.
The first cut was aimed at "judgment."
Whenever he looked at people, he always carried an evaluation with him.
It was not intentional. He simply saw too clearly.
When he saw two people ready to live or die for love, a thought would automatically surface in his mind: Was it really necessary? They won't be like this in a few years.
When he saw someone racking their brains for a promotion, another thought would surface: Is it worth it? Once they retire, it's all the same.
When he saw a group of people arguing and fighting over faith, yet another thought would surface: Does it mean anything? God doesn't care anyway.