I'm tired.
And its not from the three, four, five, ten, fifteen mile runs that I find myself running these days. I can deal with physical wear. The are remedies for that- a hot bath, a good nap, and a good meal. I'm weary. I'm fatigued. I'm demoralized.
I can feel the faith that I instill in people slip away, little by little. Disappointment by disappointment. I'm growing more apathetic than empathetic to the plight of people around me. My conversations feel vapid, empty. My writing seems soulless; only a caricature, a hollow imitation of my inner voice.
As I write this, I feel torn of what I want. I don't desire recognition. I don't necessarily want appreciation. I just want people to pay attention to details. So much of discourse is based upon listening, reading cues from who you are talking with, judging reactions. It's a lost art, replace by emoticons, drunken hazes, and texting. God, what am I talking about?
I hate it when people consistently change plans at the last minute. I hate it when people are consistently late. I know its seems petty, but those little things, those thoughtless things that you do subconsciously, they are what shows your character in a sense. Its the difference between niceness and kindness. Its the difference between acquaintance and friend.
When I was young, I thought it was the big gestures that showed love. I loved receiving presents from my parents. I thought you could quantify how much your parents loved you by how big the present that you got for Christmas was and how much your allowance was. And even as I grew older, I kept that mentality. I showed love by grand gestures, which usually involved money.
I never understood in church what they meant by to love is to serve. I think I'm beginning to know now. I realize now that my mom loved me because they was always a hot meal waiting for me on the table and always clean clothes in the hamper, and not by any gift or allowance that was given to me. Lately I find myself picking up after someone else even though they may not notice. I don't quite know the reason why I do it. Maybe I always saw, but was yet mature enough to understand the implications.
My mother was always afraid I never listened. I don't think I ever did. But watched, and I am still learning lessons from her. Even from memories from my childhood.
And its not from the three, four, five, ten, fifteen mile runs that I find myself running these days. I can deal with physical wear. The are remedies for that- a hot bath, a good nap, and a good meal. I'm weary. I'm fatigued. I'm demoralized.
I can feel the faith that I instill in people slip away, little by little. Disappointment by disappointment. I'm growing more apathetic than empathetic to the plight of people around me. My conversations feel vapid, empty. My writing seems soulless; only a caricature, a hollow imitation of my inner voice.
As I write this, I feel torn of what I want. I don't desire recognition. I don't necessarily want appreciation. I just want people to pay attention to details. So much of discourse is based upon listening, reading cues from who you are talking with, judging reactions. It's a lost art, replace by emoticons, drunken hazes, and texting. God, what am I talking about?
I hate it when people consistently change plans at the last minute. I hate it when people are consistently late. I know its seems petty, but those little things, those thoughtless things that you do subconsciously, they are what shows your character in a sense. Its the difference between niceness and kindness. Its the difference between acquaintance and friend.
When I was young, I thought it was the big gestures that showed love. I loved receiving presents from my parents. I thought you could quantify how much your parents loved you by how big the present that you got for Christmas was and how much your allowance was. And even as I grew older, I kept that mentality. I showed love by grand gestures, which usually involved money.
I never understood in church what they meant by to love is to serve. I think I'm beginning to know now. I realize now that my mom loved me because they was always a hot meal waiting for me on the table and always clean clothes in the hamper, and not by any gift or allowance that was given to me. Lately I find myself picking up after someone else even though they may not notice. I don't quite know the reason why I do it. Maybe I always saw, but was yet mature enough to understand the implications.
My mother was always afraid I never listened. I don't think I ever did. But watched, and I am still learning lessons from her. Even from memories from my childhood.
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