So much for the mellowing that comes with age. So much for being sorted and measured and temperate. So much for moderation and equability. Why, more than ever, do I care desperately or not at all? It’s all instinct, not logic. It’s all immersion, not distance. It’s either ‘I couldn’t give a fuck’ or ‘I can’t sleep I mind so much’.
It’s a question of identity: am I ruthless and callous and merciless or am I brimming over with compassion and entirely emotional incontinence? And is it possible to be both without boasting some kind of personality disorder?
Sometimes it feels like a question of funds in the feelings bank. Sometimes, when bad stuff happens, I have simply run out of fucks to give. The cup is empty and the cupboard is bare and life is asking too much of me for any spare care to be going begging. “Who cares?” I ask. Really. Who does? Because I don’t. I can’t be arsed when life keeps coming at me. Oh, but I’m so lucky. Surely I should be one big bleeding heart with all I have to be grateful for? Apparently not.
But it doesn’t last. The flux is forever fluxing, the sands are forever shifting and life gets in the way of being who I’d like to be. I can’t budget my fucks. So who the fuck am I? Monster or martyr? Oh God I don’t even care…