I've often read in novels about people who are cold or empty or unfeeling. The characters always seemed a bit unreal to me, and if not extremely well written I would be aware that the author was trying to manipulate my feelings about that character.
Today I realized I am one of those characters. I was visiting the house of a dear recently deceased friend to attend the sale of her belongings. I went with a couple of friends. Who both told me as we walked thru the house how much it upset them to see her stuff "like this".
"Doesn't it bother you?" they asked? No, it didn't. Not a bit. I approached it like any other estate sale I might go to, looking for the best buy or an item I just really really needed in my house. I thought it was a bit strange that it bothered my friends, but chalked it up to an excessive amount of feelings. One friend especially can cry over a bug being stepped on. I don't begrudge her that and have always respected her tender feelings. Its just not me.
After further introspection this evening, I'm realizing I probably should care a bit more. I probably should feel more sadness at a minimum for a life well lived cut too short. And that's when I recognized the me of two years ago would have been much more emotional over this. I would still be mourning her loss, instead of feeling the nothingness and absence of caring.
Love's left me.
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