I find myself shaken and swayed by the shifting sands of compassion and concern. Things I can’t face caring about any longer and things that knock me sideways from afar.
Largely I can’t be bothered to take things personally. If you don’t like me then I won’t waste time trying to convince you that you should. I mean, oy! If you have a party and there’s no room for me, so be it. If I am the last to know that you have a hot new affair on the bill then, frankly, that’s the way I like it.
But it gets darker: if you lose your job then, intellectually, I understand that it’s a nightmare, while finding myself unable to get all heartfelt about it. If you are sad then I am sorry you are sad but no longer actually sad for you and with you. Is this perhaps a numbing of the emotions that comes with the rush hour of life?
I am told that if you look back over your shoulder at the moment real disaster strikes, you will see that until a nanosecond ago you were happy. Maybe tired. Maybe broke. Maybe worried. Maybe unfulfilled. But broadly you were blissful. And so when Syria is happening. And Trump is looming. And the NHS is crumbling. And Yemen is a shit show. And rape in India is on some kind of hideous meteoric trajectory, then my tears are no longer for you. Or, at least, not until you need them. I care about you. But I cry for them.