I wrote a poem entitled ‘To Play the Fool’; its opening line reads ‘The role of saint is one I do not wish’ and upon that note I find my current mood very much resonating.
I’m not a naturally social person; neither do I feel the need to care about much that doesn’t concern me, great way to introduce myself I know! But I’m a good person; I am knightly in my noble quest to better other’s lives when the duty calls, even when my own life is on the fast track to hell. I have seen the twisted depths of self destruction that humanity can lead to, tasted the sour mix of disappointed and am forced to endure the horrid flavour it’s forced down my throat.
So to the world I stand in my tarnished but honourable armour, banner in hand as upon the chaos of other’s lives I ride to save the day, a damn fine fellow to the core. The less subtle way of explaining it has a more ruthless edge, my true colours revealed as the machine of my nature is exposed in its callous truth, my words not in sync with the world of fluffy shit we are expected to live by.
I have to deal with the shit, the crap of human nature as with little enjoyment and the grim flash of an unnatural smile I eat the putrid servings forced upon me, the true bite of this unholy situation reflected in the time I am alone and dealing with my own shit. Who is there for me to turn to? After I’ve seen the worst of those around me can I still pretend I’m not on my own? Why should I care?
So I sit with my laptop, a picture of loneliness, Jazz FM in the background to dissuade my destructive tendencies as I type the poisonous resentment seeping from every fault line of my fractured soul, the question I feel needs asking ringing loud; Can you lose the ability to care?, a notion whose words haunt with every letter that’s entwined into its threatening formation.
To explore this dangerous notion I must first state the background from which I draw the question, I am an intently good person who pays my dues and abides by the laws of common decency, I’m not perfect by far but I don’t commit any major sins or moral breeches and even appear human on occasion. Yet my attempts to find happiness and contentment in life are twisted against me, emotion wreckage a chillingly common sight on the paths I take to engage my humanity, my legs were broken before the race of life even began.
You would think I might be awarded for trying, some hollow token of happiness at least to numb the crippling pain I feel as I am reminded just how rigged the odds against me were, a taste of pure joy that doesn’t reduce to hurtful ash before I get the briefest sample of genuine pleasure. When a man is made/born to feel this level of wretchedness without reprieve you realise the futility of my question, it’s not a case of can you lose the ability to care but when.
“A light no matter how small is a sun when shone in the dark, unless the darkness has become blindness to any form of light”, how long until this becomes my own fate…