I’m part of the problem.
I know I am.
I don’t really care.
People who care come up with solutions. People who care are able to see the specific and underlying problems in society. People who care get on my tits.
I’m speaking specifically about people who care about EVERYTHING. You know the ones, bless ‘em. They have deeply held beliefs on the welfare state, entrenched views regarding what needs to happen in Christchurch, and know exactly how to fix our education system. They know better than me.
The thing is, they probably do. I, like many of us, go with my gut. I’m not overly concerned with the minutiae, the ins-and-outs, of a situation. I vote for people to give a fuck on my behalf. I know this is intellectually lazy of me, but that’s how I’m built. Part of me wishes I was able to digest all the information and come up with well informed opinions.
I’m genuinely glad those people are out there. If everyone was like me nothing would get done. No-one would be held to account. Occasionally they uncover something I am interested in and I’m able to share in their outrage, or be outraged by it. Feel like I’m part of something. That constant outrage seems too much like hard work to me. I’m struggling to tap out these few, barely conceived, paragraphs let alone get the gumption to rail against a thing that may have happened to someone, somewhere.
So, keep up the good work, people who care. Ride that high horse all the way to the finish. Make up for me being an undissolved solute in society and keep the discourse flowing into the ether where I will pick it up subconsciously and do fuck all with it.
Time for a cup of tea and a lie down