My website is telling me to write more. It’s just over a week into NaNoWriMo, and while I am happy with the fact that I am still trying, I also find myself struggling to figure out if it is helping me obtain my goals. I used to write about everything and everything, but I ensured nothing would see the light of day, confidence in my writing only recently got to the point where I figured others might want to read it.

So instead of delving into my brain, searching for another topic to overthink and dissect into another obfuscating post, I figured I would post something a little more personal. One of the things I got into briefly, was the concept of Slam Poetry. It felt like a bit of a mix between the edgy songwriting from my High School days, and the comedy shows I always wished I was able to perform.

And while I never actually performed it, the concept stayed with me for a while. I wrote this piece after a particularly hard time at work, years ago, when I was making my first solid attempt at applying Stoicism to my life. With all the things going on in my life now, it made me reflect on this one, and while it is primarily a work of fiction, the parts that I wove this tale from are all from separate, but true real life experiences, many of which I never told anyone.

I figured it was time to share it.

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I am in love with indifference,
And she in love with me,
But I don’t care.

I care not for the stories that are told between raspy breath,
Or for the lives of those I’ve watched passed, their families care more than I.
I have trained myself into apathy, to defend myself from the horrors that we do.
In my stead, I can’t afford to see trivialities as nothing but fallout.

As the sirens blare, and radio cackles, I pull onto a somber scene.
A mother stands there sobbing, stating to me her daughter died.
“She was shaking, She wouldn’t stop shaking” with trembling hands, the mother cries.
And into the house we tread, the mother stopped just at the door.
As if the doorway had a sign that stated “Abandon hope, The path you knew now lost.’
And my partner would only scoff, and I would just breathe a sigh.

See, I am in love with indifference, and she in love with me.
So I find myself so irked, when mother tells me that she was getting her daughter ready,
Fetching her red boots when she heard her daughter cry. And of her fear when she found her daughter shaking on her side.
I wished to know only what happened, no malice in my words do lie,
But it’s hard to say “just give me the facts” when a parent see’s their child die.

A body small, and frail and pure, amidst the cacophony of sorrow.
A body still warm, but still, and pale, a strident beacon of withered dreams
But to me it’s just a body, nothing more, nothing less.
To them it’s their livelihood. Nothing more, nothing less.
And for those lives I’ll attempt to save her’s, albeit; silent, detached, removed.

I am no longer disallusioned, I understand that she is already dead.
And as these hands that were trained to heal put pressure upon her chest,
The feeling of her ribs cracking, To myself, “it’s for the best.’
Epinepherine, Intubate. Epinepherine, Shock. Epinepherine, Shock. Epinepherine, Shock.
Eventually there was no more to shock. Epinepherine, Wait. Epinepherine, Wait. Epinepherine, Stop.

And I put two fingers to her neck, I felt my pulse was bounding reminding me that her’s was no more.
Apologies and condolances, all empty, hollow, void.
Platitudes will not help to forget the sour memories of this room.
See, I am in love with indifference, and she in love with me.
A stoic stands and takes his charge, You need not feel human, in order to be humane.

See, I am in love with indifference, and she in love with me.
But sometimes love can falter, as it sways, I find new lust.
And as I find myself leaving, I catch the only thing of note.
Something in me that almost takes root, a tiny pair of red boots.