I'm listening to a collection by Rufus and reading from my diary.
5am on April 1st 2014: "I've figured it out: I keep pretending to give a shit, when I don't."
Here's the rest of the entry:
I feel like it's really one theater event, this life, and the things that seem to matter, or that matter at all, are just little. And if there's a God, or if we're in the Matrix, or whatever - who knows? And one person filled with so much love exterminates all the butterflies in the world (they are forever trapped as larvae; although in their short lives, 'forever' is what - three days?) so the world may eat or something. Another, filled with so much hate builds a company that takes over the world and makes all but ten people absolute slaves. Who gives a shit? Just plot twists. Then the world will go on. Or it won't. Then we'll go to heaven. Or we won't. Then the present will be transformed, transmuted, into the future. Or maybe it'll just poof! and be gone. Big boo hoo.
But the little things make us cry still. A film in which two fall in love. Tears of joy. A megastar musician whose art one thinks is lousy. Oh, protest out of proportion.
We all should be very bored. But thank God, we find small things to fight for.
We all should be very bored. But how many believe how small these our lives are?