Lately, I’ve found myself saying fewer and fewer words, and apparently, writing even fewer. It’s not for the lack of thoughts for there are many, always. I don’t feel like putting them out in sounds, paper or the screen.
This feeling is a new calm for someone who has always expressed first and thought later. I don’t find myself sitting on benches now. On the rare occasion that I do look at people going about their day, I realise that I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care what they’re talking about. I don’t care about what’s going on for neither the attention or time to do so find their way to me. I’m too busy living my life, trying to optimise everything that goes on in it. It is an experience so personal, I don’t want to share it with anyone anymore.
It’s an odd sort of selfishness but one I think was necessary. The reason why it feels that way still escapes me, to be honest.
Have you ever walked down an alley you probably visited years ago but don’t quite remember? You might remember feeling that the path you’re on leads where you’re trying to go without any true knowledge of why you may feel so. I think that is how I feel these days, but I’m not too sure of anything anymore.
I’m just calmer, in general. Perhaps, I have grown up, whatever that means. I’m not too sure. Of both time and attention, there is little and I don’t want to share it with anyone anymore; I want to choose and decide who gets which of those, and exclude everyone who does not.