apathy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Apathy. What a word. It brings to mind notions of "pathetic" or "pathology." So I guess that means I'm defective, dysfunctional, junk. They could be on to something there; I feel like junk in a world that should be so perfect. Maybe I'm supposed to just sit. Maybe we all should. Sit for a moment and ponder how our hands and feet play a part in making or breaking the planet we profess to love. So do I feel like painting the house? No. Not really. Do I feel like mending the fence that was torn down in the wind? No. Not really. Do I want to jump to my feet, snap my hand to attention and march in the direction you point? Not one bit. You all run around like what you're doing matters and the world keeps on getting worse. Stop. Just stop. Perhaps that's what we need to do.
I see your knowing smile and raised brow. You don't think apathy is philosophy. Perhaps not for everyone, but for me it is the best chance for change. How many wars were started by lazy drop outs who wanted to feel the grass beneath their backs and gaze at the clouds in wonder? Not many I'll wager. I might not be the next Einstein but I'll never be the next Hitler either. I'll settle for "someone decent but was lazy," you can put it on my headstone.
Apathy washes over me like heavy water, holding me to the ground and only letting some of the sunlight in. Under the blue there is nothing else that matters, nothing significant worthy of my time. Everything I do gets undone. The sun rises and falls whether I move or not, days come and go. I know the feeling will lift when my eyes acknowledge the golden rays and treasure the birdsong. Then the water will recede allowing my lungs to fill with fresh air. Then I will move fast to make up for such lost time, but in apathy there is time to think, time to know the right path instead of merely guessing.
There's nothing wrong with me; no cold, no flu, not even a heartache. I could spring up this minute and work my way down the chore list my mother has taped to the door. I can do everything perfectly well, I can tidy, vacuum, put laundry in the machine and mow the front lawn. I just can't be bothered. Instead I feel like checking Facebook, so I do. After a few hours I hear the sound of my sister's voice like nails on a chalkboard. She's finished her list, and her homework, she's asking permission to go to the mall with her equally annoying friends. I sigh and return to the social media. Then the door handle turns, the door gets wedged on the damp towels that clutter my floor. "What!?" I call out to let the intruder know they're not welcome.
I'm trying, God knows I'm trying, but I can't feel a damn thing.
You wanna know how it feels? Well, it's like when you go under water, and you close your eyes. Everything in the world suddenly ceases to exist somehow. The only thing you hear is the beating of your heart and the thoughts on your mind, and if you don't reach the surface, you start to feel your lungs craving for oxygen, burning because you can't breathe.
That's how I feel about everything lately. I can only hear the echoes of past voices on my mind, and sometimes it's hard to breathe, but the rest of the world doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters right now for me.
I just feel the beating of my heart; nothing less, nothing more.
Apathy is the stop sign I can't get passed. I thought I was special, I wanted so much to be treasured, but I'm no more than fall leaves on the ground. I only know I'm alive from the shadows I cast, proof that the sunlight hit my skin and noticed I was there. My limbs aren't lithe, my head isn't wise, my heart isn't healthy. I am a cut out, a moving human shape where love should dwell but all others see is the hovering darkness.
If apathy were a person her skin would be grey from lack of sun and her limbs frail from malnutrition. Her food would be love and her medicine a noble purpose, one that meant everything to someone - just one person would do. She would never open her eyes until someone remembered her name, the right sounds said with pure love. Then she would open them and gaze upon the one who knew how to call her and morph from apathy into what she was born to be.
Cleo sat on the couch, words bouncing off her like rain from concrete. Every muscle in her was slouched, no doubt even her heart was beating slowly. She had set her eyes dead ahead onto the great oak tree in the yard, mesmerized by the way the light played on the leaves to create dappled shade. There was no chore she was willing to do, no reason to shift into second gear. So there she sat, potato-like, all day long.