I am not much interested in what someone has to say if it lacks nuance regarding perception as an individual experience. I am not much interested in what someone has to argue, if they are only expunging air to prove that they are right. I am not much interested in what you have to say on the internet, in how much of your identity is quantified by taps and likes, measured in impressions, or predicted by algorithms. I am not much interested in provoked outrage, in someone’s right opinion, in unimaginative disdain.
I am not much interested in much these days, except:
How bright and beautiful the sunrise still looks everyday, even from the inside of a hospital waiting room. The strange whoosh of air from a ventilator machine, how it can transform from something first heard in a nightmare to a strange rhythmic lullaby, the cadence of a heartbeat still moving blood through a loved one’s veins. I am more interested in how to make myself more capable of loving, even to the point of exhaustion. Because there is no such thing as loving enough — loving the world, loving myself, loving the people that matter most me. I do not know if humans alone are capable of miracles, but I am not much interested in that, since life itself is a miracle. So I suppose there isn’t very much I am interested in, besides the healing power of love, the love we have within ourselves, both for ourselves, and for one another. I don’t really care these days to have space for much else.