Take away just a little bit of what makes you human and life seems so much easier. Empathy. Hah, who needs it.
I don’t want my empathy. What’s the point if you can’t do fuck about it? I mean, Converse, Nike, all made in sweatshops by kids who’d never get to wear the shoes they make. I’m getting a pair of Chuck Taylors because I can’t do a thing about it but sit there and think and feel sorry about the whole thing.
It’s not just a global thing. In personal situations too, sometimes, why bother?
Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
It’s getting a bit easier now. I’m not happy, just less troubled in a sick twisted sort of way. I understand.
Some days I go home feeling good about myself. I say “I’m happy with who I am.” The next morning it’s gone. Reality sets in and you remember the high powered flashes, art exhibitions, lazy politicians, dreamgirls, the impossible and then it’s just gone.
But I guess it’s all worth it? For that breif moment of happiness, camraderie, intoxication. Like those few days when that new song is still new.
Slowly, I realize that happiness can come at one in the morning. The worlds dark and cold outside, but where I’m sitting in my dining room, I’ve got good music and solitude.
I Live.
