She wants to be like the water.
I'd like to believe I was a compassionate person when I was younger. I was appreciative, at least. I find it ironic that, the more I know about the world, the more I am exposed to its splendour and its suffering; its people; their truth; their hyprocrisy, the more I tend to - how do I say - give a shit about nothing else but my own problems. I guess when you were younger, it's easier to feel sorry for other people. Life was easy.
Does that even make sense?
I was brought to this particular thought after I finished re-reading Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt two days ago. I wasn't "moved" by it the way I was when I first read the memoir (three, four years ago, maybe?). Probably because 1. I've read it; or 2. I've lost that sense of compassion I once had. I remember, when I first read the book, being particularly touched by this one scene after Frank had his first pint. It was then that (and this is strictly my own opinion/outlook of it) for the first time in sixteen years, it finally came down on the author how miserable his life had been - how miserable it is at that moment, and how there was nothing he could do to escape it.
It's funny how your own "life experience" could trigger different reactions towards a scene in a book. You read it when you're fourteen, fifteen and you cry your eyes out. You read it again at eighteen - nothing.
And then you realize, it's not just the scene-in-a-book.
You realize that you don't "care". Not anymore.
It's frightening.
(If you haven't noticed, I've decided to start making some of my entries public now. For the fun of it, heh.)