For years now, I’ve often wondered if I would ever feel true outrage, like the kind I see on the internet everyday.
I wondered what it would be like to experience the need to type-shout in all-caps, as to force-feed my hyphenated-mashings down into the eye sockets of whomever might happen to be reading my words.
Ex: “Really? AGAIN? Ugh. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN..”
But the outrage never came. No matter how hard I tried, how deeply I strained, gritted and churned. The best I could ever muster was a craned neck or a half-assed sulk. But most often just a plain “hmmm” while my finger tapped my lips.
It is this kind of emotional impotence that will serve as the fin de siècle of the terminally unoffended. A sort of cool white mask that just covers your whole being.
Eventually you’ll pick up a copy of Kinfolk Magazine, or learn how to properly use a slow cooker, and just gradually slip into the soothing mists of aesthetic sublimation, where everything you say or hear rings profoundly hollow, like some dumb fucking seashell you found at the beach.
True compassion is to suffer invisibly, even when in plain sight.