contemplate.

The pittle-patter of life taps away at me like some methodical torture method. I hear but don’t listen. I see but don’t acknowledge. The incomprehensible problems of others deemed so critical as to be divulged with me are meaningless on a scale of such magnitude that I now believe it to be some form of divine humour. I don’t feel empathy because I don’t consider it to be a human trait we were ever meant to feel. Showing empathy for others justifies their need to share and impart their own problems which is base selfishness. When did problems cease to be about the individual?

If we cannot overcome our own problems then we ourselves have admitted defeat. Defeat to whom though? It is the tolling bell of existence to give up on oneself. Your self-assurances and morality fade with the past, and all that is left is a desperate attempt to reach out for others to pick up the broken pieces that form your life.