Apathethic realism is your response to the vicissitudes of life.

You’ve been trained to dull your senses. Your life is delineated by the binary construct of black and white. Not expressing emotion, for you, is a survival strategy. It is how you cope with the stress of existing on a terrestrial plain muddled by the still waters of chaos that runs deep, and vast. How else may you grapple with the truth that you will not be who you think you are? All of your life, experiences, challenges — the entirety of your existence is dissoluble into memories captured in the thoughts, opinions and stereotypes of others.

You will always be the author, detailing your existential corporeality. But its interpretation lies in the fabricates of others. So you contrive, you dissemble, you sometimes obfuscate — all of these whilst convincing yourself that in your apathy, you are immune to the inclemency of human opination.

Are you?

Why then do you find yourself besieged by shock, animation, jealousy, envy, admiration, sometimes, even anger, when you observe the ones who live brazenly, unashamedly, with emotion. Embellishing the colour of their existence with naturistic abandon? They never worry about the next action to take, the next paycheque, the next trip. They’re here in the now, they explore spontaneity with blatant fecundity — you may find this reproachable or you may secretly approbate.

That longing you feel, when you choose to acknowledge it, is that of desires repressed. Maybe you once had this dream, a passion, a want; all of which you shed as the warm blanket of childhood was forcefully ripped from you by the impatient onerousness of adulthood — with cold (im)practicality.

And it doesn’t stop. The ripping constancy blazes through the hallway of your life permeating through every door that represents a chapter where you had to forsake the things you love, the ones you love, the one you loved, for the things you should have.

So, you may live through them, those ones who are free, or exist without prevarication under the illusion of freedom. Admiring glimpses of yourself in them that slip through the cracks of your emotional aridity, mirroring a lost life that you may have had. Or you may despise them, as everything they embody educes a life you eschewed with an eschatological finality. A life you have now forsaken.

Either way, you will sometimes question the validity of your choices. And inadvertently, with each question, even that admiration may slowly disspipate to a void, slowly pervaded with a resentment that burns.

To the ones who are free, or live without prevarication under the illusion of freedom, you know yourselves. What you have achieved, is an anomaly, a deviation — a mountainous expressional authenticity of truth in a valley where lies are the foundation upon which the conventional normativity of human existence holds root.



What you have seen, will see, you see, is an ever-continuing present. There is only an unending now. You are always here.

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Lauretta Ezeugbor

What you have seen, will see, you see, is an ever-continuing present. There is only an unending now. You are always here.