The Medicine for Apathy

Source: khybernews.tv

Can you lose the ability to sense the pain of other people, if only temporarily?

And does that always necessarily mean that you are an awful person?

A depressed prefrontal cortex under the influence can be a good excuse.

But what is the excuse for so many commentators failing to acknowledge the pain of protesters in Parachinar in response to the suicide bombings targeting the Shia community.

For refusing to accept the condition of the people perishing in the Bahawalpur oil tanker tragedy.

For wilfully overlooking the tragedy of the displaced Syrian people.

For ignoring the plight of the people of Gaza Strip deprived of water and electricity.

For being glad to see Mishal Khan die a painful death just because he said something offensive, which they say he didn’t.

Maybe there should be medicine for that.

But there is no good in passing moral judgment when you are guilty of the same.

Why pick and choose tragedies, just like the people you are pointing fingers at.

Why talk about people abroad when I don’t even sympathize with the person living next door.

Why would you want to save humanity if it is people that you just can’t stand.

The fact of the matter is that I do not remotely feel the pain and agony of all those people. Even if I try.

I don’t find in myself to be bothered enough to go out for the pain and loss of so many people.

And how many causes can you possibly choose.

 

Maybe there should be medicine for that.

 

A Self-Inflicted Loss

Source: vector-eps.com

It happened to me again.

All over again, deja vu. History repeating itself.

Just when I thought I had learned all my lessons. Just when I thought that it would never happen to me again, it just did.

No, it wasn’t an accident. Or maybe it was. But it was certainly my own doing. My own fault.

I shattered my world with my own hands.

I did this to myself. A self-inflicted wound.

A self-inflicted loss.

I am the architect of my own misery.

With false pride, anger, hubris, decadent complacency and impulsive misery,

I have broken the glass of my memories, while I could have saved it, while planning to save it, and nothing can put it back together now.

All I have now is regret. Regret, and false solace.

A suspended consciousness.

I’m helpless, longing for somebody to help me… though I know no one can.

At least somebody to reach out to. Though with never the right answers.

There is no right answer.

I’m helpless, but not regretting existence, or probably doing so.

I know nothing is more precious than life, and love of the loved ones.

Nothing is more important.

 

That’s what keeps you going, to let you fight another day.

To let you live another way.