tiny little

And someone still reads my heart, cares about how I feel.

For this alone I keep myself intact.

Breaking down is like feeling sick. I enjoyed it when I was a kid. It grabs attention of others.
But I’ve come to the age when I know that no one really takes care of me except for myself. Maybe my parents do take care of me but because it wouldn’t be the way I want it I wouldn’t want it. Am an annoying (beautiful) ass.

Who knows me anyway.

A friend was telling me her currently at the brink of breaking down.

How I felt so helpless. And cold.

I do lack empathy.

And sometimes she tells me that everyone just has to take care of themselves.

I think it’s right.

We are all in little excess of energy, aren’t we?

The ‘better’ type of people let others do most of the talking.

They are patient, humble, and they are not full of themselves.

Sometimes I am the better type of people; sometimes, or maybe most of the time, I am not.

But this is okay too. I mean, what else can I do?

The boss I fancy had a rough Thursday.

He told me about his helplessness of ‘pleasing’ everyone. ‘pleasing’ in quotation because it’s not exactly pleasing. In our work context it’s more like satisfying needs of the marginalized. He said he could address needs of the poor people and youngsters and women and the handicapped in the whitepaper to submit to the government, but the ethnic minorities weren’t happy that they were excluded. He said categories are infinite. Of course there is no perfection. Gosh does he still not know.

I responded that people do what they are supposed to in respective roles. It was an EM group he was talking to and he represents the entire sector. And that he has already done a decent job not being numb to these demands –  

How hard it is, really.

He was most saddened by the fact that the whitepaper hardly means a thing. Above discontent over the contents, what’s there to see and touch and make happen. Airy. The whitepaper is just a surface of things. It’s an indicator that he is doing his job. He saw nothing underneath the surface. He wasn’t pleased.

I responded that the surface might as well be the substance. ‘There’s thickness to it’, I said. I was responding for discussion’s/ argument’s sake, like how I always am.

How does he imagine the non-surface substance anyway. Is perception, sort of or exclusively, reality? Is there right or wrong to it, especially when we are tiny little screws in the giant machine. Are ‘tiny little screws’ a flattery or an insult – I can’t be sure.

He earns it staying.

Pacified by the system. The establishment.