I don't even know why I am bothering to write today. Lack of anything better to do, perhaps.
Well, I saw this show on AAG TV yesterday and it profiled the homeless people in Karachi and, of course, I felt like a shit for being who I am and that we just silently witness the injustices and all that. But I didn't feel devastated as I once used to be. My feelings of empathy have truly disappeared. Things which used to really affect me no longer do. I am so self-absorbed that all I can think of is 'I could give a rat's ass about you/that.' It's really as simple as that. Not that I felt that when I saw all those homeless beggars. One poor guy was from Multan and was a mechanic until he fell off a train and his legs got cut off on the train tracks. And now he is begging. Christ.
But all I think about is myself and how things affect me. This is terrible.
And then I start reading that volume of short stories by Pakistani women entitled, 'And then the world changed' and I read and feel even more crappy because I can't write. I don't really want to write fiction because I don't really see any point. It turns out I don't have quite a literary soul, inspite of being an INFP.
I've been here a grand total of two weeks. And nothing to show for it except ingratitude and resignation to my being a complete utter waste of life.
Well, I saw this show on AAG TV yesterday and it profiled the homeless people in Karachi and, of course, I felt like a shit for being who I am and that we just silently witness the injustices and all that. But I didn't feel devastated as I once used to be. My feelings of empathy have truly disappeared. Things which used to really affect me no longer do. I am so self-absorbed that all I can think of is 'I could give a rat's ass about you/that.' It's really as simple as that. Not that I felt that when I saw all those homeless beggars. One poor guy was from Multan and was a mechanic until he fell off a train and his legs got cut off on the train tracks. And now he is begging. Christ.
But all I think about is myself and how things affect me. This is terrible.
And then I start reading that volume of short stories by Pakistani women entitled, 'And then the world changed' and I read and feel even more crappy because I can't write. I don't really want to write fiction because I don't really see any point. It turns out I don't have quite a literary soul, inspite of being an INFP.
I've been here a grand total of two weeks. And nothing to show for it except ingratitude and resignation to my being a complete utter waste of life.