The bottom line is honesty, and it is so little, so sparingly present in the world that no matter where you look, you find people who lie, and when they are not lying to others, their wits are unequivocally busy with lying to themselves—the only thing they have left to do. This exhausts me, of course. Take a trip out of the city, and by the time you arrive at the airport, you will have found the end of your patience, and if, by some grace of luck or fate, anything is left in you, a conversation you accidentally eavesdrop on will nip it in the bud.
To face the truth is often the simplest thing anyone can do. Simple, of course, is seldom easy. But then, this game we play with ourselves, as we tuck the truth under affectations that make us seem more posh than we are, or attempt to leave a positive impression but fail and fumble, crashing into the box of desperation, or how we paint ourselves as an observer—neutral and detached. I am the last out of those oddly specific illustrations. I am far too aware that I am no impartial observer. In fact, I care deeply about this world, about people, about society. My detachment is a farce which lets me sleep at night. And sleep, too, has oddly disappeared under the weight of exhaustion tonight. I lay here in this foreign bed and worry about the world. My brain has ceased to make a coherent thought. My body wants to sleep, to call it a day. And yet, this is all I can do: think and worry.
The truth is that those of us who feign detachment are often attached beyond measure. We do not make bets on the world; our entire existence is already at stake. We are almost always too involved for our own good. At least, this is all the truth I can spare for myself in this wave of exhaustion. It has been an absurdly long day. Yet, the only thing on my mind is the world, other people, their idiosyncrasies and antics, their shortcomings and failings, and their vehemently redeemable humanity.