Tuesday Quought: to understand
and none to
B. Childish, The Deathly Flight of Angels, Hangman Books, 1990, p. 53.
Not chosen, not worthy, pitiable and wonderful. It kind of summarizes not only me.
One week even the worst seem to have something going for them. This week everybody seems at their worst. And there is only one plausible difference: the beholder. What the hell is wrong with me in picking up noise and assigning value to it? I have an infected prostate, a mental condition which does not pass the test for being a condition, too much time to lament the lack of time I experience as keeping me from anything significant and The Family which is one week all joy & this week all worry.
Loads of people care (not: few, few only fits in ‘only a few feel chosen’). I care. It’s just bloody difficult to pick up. It is hard to accept as well. Caring is no currency so there is no market with liquidity for it. It is custom made for each occasion and cannot be kept for future use.
Caring is a wonderful thing but it is also near impossible. So even with loads of people caring does the individual living in a web of caring flop to the belief nobody cares. She is right, most of the time nobody cares about what she individually, particularly needs them to care about. It’s a pitiable state of affairs where caring leads to feeling not being cared about.
There is then a continuity between feeling bad and caring. Small wonder most people try to flatten it all out in an attempt to lose themselves in the mediocre and in the averages. The alternative is to flip.
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