I'm not really all that mysterious

something inside me may have died a long time ago

I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve just lost my capacity for friendship. For love. For caring.

Not that I don’t care, but I find that these days, I care about people in the abstract, as some reified, hypothetical construct. To steal a turn of phrase from the misanthropic Moe Syzlak from “The Simpsons”, I care about people in the sense that I don’t wish anyone any specific harm, and generally would like people to reach their goals (providing that these said goals are generally benign, or more specifically, they aren’t harmful to me.)

But I don’t remember the last time that this sentiment was backed with passion. With fire. With feeling.

I don’t remember the last time I was in love.

That is, if I’ve ever truly been in love.

Wow, there’s something inside me that is truly broken, like it’s been kicked to shit, ravaged into pieces, trampled, and burned, with the ashes scattered to the wind. I know it’s truly all fucked up and probably irreversibly destroyed because it doesn’t even hurt a bit.

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