"I don't care anymore...no more...no more...no more...no more."
The lyrics to the above Phil Collins' song beats through my head as I swing my feet out from under the covers. As I place my feet on the floor, they glide across a litter of magazines and newspapers. 'God I need to clean my room.' I don't usually let my little hideaway, tucked up in the corner of my sister's home, get so disheveled but as of late I've been depressed. I could careless if last week's issue of the local gay newspaper, Newsweek and Men's Health collect dust kitties on floor alongside my unused cock ring, a bottle of lube and a self-help book whose binding was only cracked once, in line at Barnes & Noble.
'Is it Friday? Where do I need to be today? How many meetings do I need to perform at? Oh, no wait it's Saturday. I have the day off.'
Having the day off, what should be a feeling of relief instead brings up a welt of emptiness. "I think I'd rather it be Friday." Thoughts of heading into the office and working on next week's PowerPoint presentation careen through my head. How sad is that? At least I'd be wrapped up in my work.
Working all kinds of hours -- a bad habit I used to get into during a previous break up. Instead of dealing with the issues at home, I'd leave my rocky relationship and bury myself in process maps, technical database specifications, business requirements and test plans. Or I'd go for a ride, take out a notepad and pen, park by the beach and write for hours on end until the Dunkin' Donuts coffee I downed earlier would no longer stay inside me.
Now as I sit on the side of the bed with my feet caressing the naked chest of a guy on the cover of some gay rag, I think on how today will be different. Or will it? Why should it? Will I take any different action? Probably not. I'll go sit with my morning coffee, write in my journal, read the newspaper and then later head out aimlessly -- my compass broken.
I scratch myself, stand up and then amongst the clutter search for the pair of gym shorts I threw off in the middle of the night. I snap them on and head downstairs. It's early. It's quiet. Even the dog is still sleeping, not ready to go out. I head into my ritual: bathroom, coffee, e-mail.
As I add an extra scoop for the pot, something a friend's mom taught me to do in making for an extra-strong cup of coffee, once again the Phil Collins' mantra beats in my head: I don't care anymore. I find it not to be a negative affirmation; in fact, I find it quite the opposite. I'm letting go of the past, letting go of concerns, detaching myself from desire and outcome. It's actually quite Buddhist of me. Who really cares what happens? In the grand scheme of things, it's all so unimportant. I want for nothing. I find peace in the lack of lusting, wanting and desire for they only bring anguish.
I head off to my computer, not really caring if he, or anyone else for that matter, has written. I desire nothing for myself or from anyone.
I let the world be. I don't care anymore.