It is with great pleasure that I find myself willing to write again. In the wee hours of the morning, the Sun yet to show itself in this time zone, GMT, I've been told...
The subject, this time, has a tad bit less of a nonsense quality than the previous text. However, I will let you, whoever you are, to be the judge of how much sense this really makes-an educated guess could be «not much».
Funny thing, indiference. It has a way of creeping up on you, inconspicuously settling itself on the back of your mind, waiting patiently for the right moment to overcome any sense of understanding or simpathy you may have. And then, when the proper moment comes, and the spark that should set you off to a rath filled rampage is there, and, by all means, you should go utterly berserk... Nothing. No anger, no fury. Not even a slightly tight upper lip, or a hand clenched into a fist. Nothing! The adequate behaviour, or at least the natural, fails to exist.
Emptyness, nothing but a cold indifference when, in fact, volcanoes should be erupting fiercely. No thunderstorm, tsunami or earthquake. Not even a slight breeze, for fuck sake!
You're left the cold feeling of not giving a flying fuck, of just not being bothered in the least by that firestarting event, whatever sort it may be.
The only feeling left is the touch of cold, bitter indifference, grabing you by the neck, and even the gallows from which it hangs you fail to hassle you...
A firing squad, shooting your emotions at dawn.
«Any last words?»
«No. Tie my fucking blindfold, light my cigarrette and let's get on with the bloody thing!»
«Ready! Aim! Fire!»
Now, as usual, something worth reading:
Já não me importo
Já não me importo
Até com o que amo ou creio amar.
Sou um navio que chegou a um porto
E cujo movimento é ali estar.
Nada me resta
Do que quis ou achei.
Cheguei da festa
Como fui para lá ou ainda irei
A quem sou ou suponho que mal sou,
Fito a gente
Que me rodeia e sempre rodeou,
Com um olhar
Que, sem o poder ver,
Sei que é sem ar
De olhar a valer.
E só me não cansa
O que a brisa me traz
De súbita mudança
No que nada me faz.
"A man may fight for many things: his country, his principles, his friends, the glistening tear on the cheek of a golden child. But personally, I'd mudwrestle my own mother for a ton of cash, an amusing clock and a stack of French porn."
Edmund Blackadder in «Blackadder III»