Contrasting my view of humanity as obliging to my utter heedlessness to the world in general, I'm quickly finding that many people might actually genuinely care about the things they claim to lay interest to. For example, today I saw a mother smile at her son, even though the child was raising a sticky hand full of dirt to show the woman a writhing worm that he had dug up. As much as I tried to, I simply could not find a strain of falsity in its countenance; it simply seemed as though she was rather fond of the grubby child she poured her sweat and blood and financial resources into. Certainly, her smile became more strained when the child threw the muddy worm onto her lap, but even the compromised love was still present in her expression.
Perhaps I am over reading this. Maybe she was just a talented and under-celebrated actor, bluffing her way through a forced relationship shoved on her through societal expectations and her own guilt. Who am I to determine what is real and what is not? After all, who is to say that my own persona is nothing but an elaborate ruse? You, perhaps, but certainly not me.
Perhaps I am over reading this. Maybe she was just a talented and under-celebrated actor, bluffing her way through a forced relationship shoved on her through societal expectations and her own guilt. Who am I to determine what is real and what is not? After all, who is to say that my own persona is nothing but an elaborate ruse? You, perhaps, but certainly not me.
