Bookmark #283

Art was corrupted. Writing was dead. They wanted to win. But, there was no prize. Not that anyone knew it. If they did, they ignored it like they ignore a fly in the room. It bothers them at first. The buzzing and the way it moves about gets on their nerves. They chase it. When it manages to elude them, they make do. Humans were incredible at making do, and forgetting.

Truth was a fly in your room that came and left on its own, enough to rile you up, but nothing you could do much about. You could kill it, obviously, if you were fast enough. Perhaps, that is why art was dead. They were all fast enough.

Me, on the other hand? I was terribly slow, and I was indifferent. Most people I’ve met have told me my defining trait was consistency. They weren’t wrong. I displayed an immense capacity to continue with anything I set my mind to. My defining trait, however, was indifference. The consistency was an undesired result of it.

I was remarkably aloof, almost like a bug sitting on a leaf, not making an effort to jump or leave when a child starts to notice it or the wind begins to blow. My only concern, like the bug, was to do what I was doing, which was nothing in particular. I couldn’t care about most things. Any care I showed to the world came from a conscious decision. Anything beyond that just passed right through me.

Perhaps, at one point, I wanted monuments to my name and songs sung about how I marked the world somehow. Now, I have no desire to be in any book of history. I have no inclination to lead. Don’t get me wrong, I want to do things—write more words and make more art. Learning about history and people is never out of the question either. I’ve always been interested in what makes us human.

I have now learned the cost of winning, for whatever it means to anyone, is too high. I will do all of what I want and more, in my own time, at my own pace, and it still won’t be enough for me. With my capacity to not care about much came a need to be continually occupied. Perhaps, I may make a mark on the world after all.

But first, I must get some rest. The cost of restlessness was too high. You ended up scarring whatever you touched.