Apathy - Tumblr Posts
I feel so tired again. It's not the regular kind of tiredness, I just feel powerless and consumed by an absurd apathy. I only want to stay in bed looking to the ceiling, or endless scrolling into my facebook or tumblr accounts. I have no urge to produce or to study and this just sucks
How am i gonna get over this apathy feeling if my body likes to stay here quiet and still?? I just feel like nothing else matters beside my damn feeling, but I need to do something and I just can't
I want to live more, I want to experience new thinks, I want to create outstanding memories. I really don't want to wake up in my fortys, sad, depressed, alone and regreting my youth years. I realise I rather be sad after experiencing a lot of emotions, than to be sad after doing nothing at all
The self realisation we're a bacteria colony, on a spec for some kids science work, or a flea on alien cattle ranch, or a lost package in an interstellar delivery service, really gives me the energy to give no f#cks.
Apathy Sleep has grabbed me in a way I fear I'll never shake, a strong hold of my own demise, I wish to bid it one last goodbye. I have attached myself to it and now I can hardly rid myself from it's tantilising view. I have drowned in an abyse of apathy and cold blue, eyes wide to the salt and soaking in the dim refuge. My heart is always caught in the rapids,stray thoughts send it running. it's own rapid pace,a participant of an endles trackless race. Would I wake tomorrow to find myself on the shore, or will I still be sucken, with shutters baring my door.
whoop, forgot to tag it the first time lol
Puppet
An *incredibly* short original story I wrote regarding apathy. No joke, like 500 words.
Summary: In front of you lies a pit. // In front of you lies a choice.
Give it a read on AO3 here
To clear up some common misconceptions:
Weird is good. Strange is bad.
Smart is how much you know, intelligent is what you do with it.
Sympathy is having been there; empathy is feeling it without having been there; apathy is not feeling at all.
Bravery is choosing not to be afraid, courage is being afraid and doing it anyway.
This Monday is the upcoming Monday; next Monday is the one after that.
Hearing is sound passing into your ear. Listening is thinking about what the sound means.
Torn between wanting to die and not giving a shit about anything. Like, there’s so much going on right now. Why don’t I care? Whatever, I guess.
For context, I’m not even sure if I’m with him anymore. Pretty sure he blocked my number after getting pissed off with me for… posting about being tired of being ignored. But he doesn’t know that this account exists, and I’m going to keep it that way. I blocked his number, too. Blocked his tumblr on my main.
I should care. I should be angry. Or sad. Or maybe I should feel relieved. But I don’t. Feel. Anything.
I ought to miss him. I ought to feel bad for the things I said. I ought to at least feel relieved. I ought to have some sense of closure or clarity. To feel anything at all. But I don’t. And I can’t understand why. I’m fully aware that I said and did things that were wrong. But whenever I think that, my brain reminds me that he also did things that were wrong. This justifies nothing, and I know that. But the things I said had to be said. I refuse to let someone else dictate what I can say and do.
I never threatened him. I never begged him not to leave me or threatened myself to make him stay (in a direct or indirect way of speaking, despite having thought these things). I never ignored him. I never lied or hid anything from him. I never tried to make him feel bad about himself for the way he treated me. I never accused him of making something about him. I really did try. I tried to do everything he wanted to. Even when it hurt. Even when I felt like dying, I still stayed. He made me afraid of him and I still stayed (for like a week after I realized I was actually scared of him). You can’t say I didn’t try. But I’m not so sure he could say the same.
I don’t understand why I don’t feel anything. Why I can’t seem to care. I know that when I’m in danger, the emotional part of my mind shuts down and the logical, problem-solving part takes over. But there is no danger now. So where did it go? Why don’t I give a damn? Not just about this, but about everything? I feel anger and frustration towards the world, that much never changes, but little else.
I should be concerned by this realization, but I’m not. I’m simply writing down my observations. Watching my own actions through glass. Such a strange sensation, to be in the backseat of my own mind. It’s a symptom of something, I’m sure. I don’t know what it could be, or what this means, though. And I don’t particularly care, either.
~When does trust overlap into apathy? Why do I get the heartbreaking realization that I haven't understood these two things as much as I thought I did? How can one trust blindly without caring and worrying?~
-a poem of a new kind
"Atheism, true ‘existential’ atheism, burning with hatred of a seemingly unjust or unmerciful God, is a spiritual state; it is a real attempt to grapple with the true God whose ways are so inexplicable even to the most believing of men, and it has more than once been known to end in a blinding vision of Him Whom the real atheist truly seeks. It is Christ who works in these souls. The Antichrist is not to be found in the great deniers, but in the small affirmers, whose Christ is only on the lips. Nietzsche, in calling himself antichrist, proved thereby his intense hunger for Christ…"
~Fr. Seraphim Rose
What does it say about a person to be going down a rabbit hole of self help webpages aimed at people probably twice their age?
She creeps into you, silent and unnoticed. She hides in plain sight; her roar masks as that of rage, the clicking of her high heels assigned to your demeaned pride. The heaviness she spreads obscured as sorrow, the constant apathy is surely a result of your hurt feelings. And you blame all the other, while she walks amongst them with a cruel smile of mockery, revealing the sharp teeth. Her cold hand stroking your hair and caressing your cheek as to comfort you, is mistaken for a hand of reason; through tears and scattered focus you don't see the black claws. You only realize they're there when she shoves them under your ribs and throat, pulling you, step by step, as she likes. Eventually the little boy you know so well, the one with shocking blue eyes and black hair, holding your favourite piece of chocolate, catches up and grabs your hand..he wants to go on a walk too... He's not afraid of her, and she respects him... You won't fight her, she's the only confidence you have left, the only one, though painfully, holding you up.. And you won't fight him either, why would you fight the only one who's always been there?
Emily Yvonne
In this quiet place I cry over the empty tomb of my regrets...
Thereupon I think, why do I then cry, when the tomb is empty?
One look around reminds me
that too many in this world
will never be even as alive as those here wandering ghosts.
The barbed stake again twisting in my soul.
Should I be grieving at a different stone?
Or perhaps the dread of living with those destroying your mind and soul,
yet they are there, ominous,
impeling you alone to fill this empty grave;
the loneliness, the rage,
the grim apathy, the whispers repressed, that you are but a slave.
Emily Yvonne
"All this fury, all this rage; the grinning growling consequence of broken discipline, deflating fears and suffocated love... "
Emily Yvonne
Oxygen
Okay, so this one was written in fit of pique about someone a little overwhelmed. It’s a composite of several different events that I put together, and gave the narrator a very frantic, very overwhelming schedule. Maybe written a little out of guilt for ignoring someone when I maybe shouldn’t have. And the idea that sometimes signs have far deeper implications than the obvious. This one being…
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