indifference I hate in people has wormed its way into my heart. How much do I not give a fuck? Cue Kanye: Lemme show you right now before you give it up.
On a whim I decided to try to skip through the newsroom today. No one was here, so the only thing I could hurt was my pride — that, and my knees as I fell. The stroke didn't take many things from me, but skipping is one of them. It sounds completely stupid, the idea of being bummed by an inability to skip. For God's sake, I can walk and talk. I know the alphabet. My brain wasn't reduced to scrambled eggs.
Truth, all these things, but it's still galling and appalling, this inability to do a simple something that any kindergarten kid can master. Even on the indifferent days, this makes a difference; it colors my heart, throws a shade of dark where one does not belong. It amplifies the feeling of worthlessness that ricochets around my brain, the one that reminds me I was not good enough to keep a relationship alive, not strong enough to stave off a stroke, not brave enough to weather life's storms without breaking down. Even when I dismiss those thoughts as so much bullshit, I still live the reality and it makes me want to give up and scream until my lungs bleed.
("Man, that's some dark shit," Jim said of this blog the other day. Perhaps he's onto something.)
I was telling Malibu the other night that emotions, good or bad, signify a continuing link between two people. Shrugs and silence are the worst because they show the death of feelings. There is no emotion in a shrug. People who hate you, people who love you, people who are mad at you or glad about you — at least they care. When someone you used to know looks at you with a flat gaze ... that's when you know you're dead to them.
So it is on this DGAF Sunday. I stare at the world around me, shrug. I keep the sigh to myself. The bluebird stays in my heart until I'm alone. People are still awake. They might see.