(no subject)
Matty.
Poor bastard.
Matty has, in the past four years, had a fiancee die on him, been diagnosed with cancer, and then had a second fiancee up and leave him, after several other men got involved.
And this was just what I overheard sitting next to him on the train.
And his friend keep talking about how, you've just got to 'hold through it', that you get 'dealt a hand and you play it', how he dealt with two wives leaving him, and even that 'He has his plan, but He just doesn't tell us' - like a satchel full of slightly drunk not quite cliches.
How much of belief is cliche? Repeated so often that it just sounds like it makes sense? Goebbles again: enough repititions and they'lll swallow anything.
And Matty is only going on twenty six or so.
Matty's life is not a good life.
And mine is.
And yet, by comparison, Matty's alive, in one piece, not a child being sold into slavery, not sifting through mounds of corpses to find a loved one, not dying of almost effortlessly avoidable conditions. Like hunger.
And I see people infinitely worse off as I walk home, just lying on porches with bottles of booze, craggy faces and frightenenly empty, docile eyes.
Granted, that's 'their fault', or so runs the argument, I suppose. But is that a reason not to feel a pang of humanity?
Maybe Matty makes me feel more saddened than over 150,000 dead because he's closer, because I can hear him. But maybe it's because the gap is so unfathomable. Human suffering doesn't really have a breaking point, an 'at least it can't get any worse' point.
I don't know. I really don't. Are we that afraid of confronting reality? Really? Or just complacent.
And Matty's a gentle soul, he's sort of soft, despite his black Metallica shirt and sort of edgy manner.
It's raw and it's real. Substantial. Alterable. And for all that, people are still unhappy, depressed, even, I would say, oppressed when they have a good home, a good education, a good family and freedom to change.
This is a very, very fucked up orb of existence. And yes, I'm in a non-sequiterish mood.
Poor bastard.
Matty has, in the past four years, had a fiancee die on him, been diagnosed with cancer, and then had a second fiancee up and leave him, after several other men got involved.
And this was just what I overheard sitting next to him on the train.
And his friend keep talking about how, you've just got to 'hold through it', that you get 'dealt a hand and you play it', how he dealt with two wives leaving him, and even that 'He has his plan, but He just doesn't tell us' - like a satchel full of slightly drunk not quite cliches.
How much of belief is cliche? Repeated so often that it just sounds like it makes sense? Goebbles again: enough repititions and they'lll swallow anything.
And Matty is only going on twenty six or so.
Matty's life is not a good life.
And mine is.
And yet, by comparison, Matty's alive, in one piece, not a child being sold into slavery, not sifting through mounds of corpses to find a loved one, not dying of almost effortlessly avoidable conditions. Like hunger.
And I see people infinitely worse off as I walk home, just lying on porches with bottles of booze, craggy faces and frightenenly empty, docile eyes.
Granted, that's 'their fault', or so runs the argument, I suppose. But is that a reason not to feel a pang of humanity?
Maybe Matty makes me feel more saddened than over 150,000 dead because he's closer, because I can hear him. But maybe it's because the gap is so unfathomable. Human suffering doesn't really have a breaking point, an 'at least it can't get any worse' point.
I don't know. I really don't. Are we that afraid of confronting reality? Really? Or just complacent.
And Matty's a gentle soul, he's sort of soft, despite his black Metallica shirt and sort of edgy manner.
It's raw and it's real. Substantial. Alterable. And for all that, people are still unhappy, depressed, even, I would say, oppressed when they have a good home, a good education, a good family and freedom to change.
This is a very, very fucked up orb of existence. And yes, I'm in a non-sequiterish mood.