The Art Of Not Caring

Ah, yes—there you are, still speaking,
still spinning your tangled web of fiction,
still clinging to the stage like the show hasn’t ended,
as if the audience hasn’t long since gone home.

How tragic, how pitiful, how utterly exhausting
it must be to beg for relevance in a world
that has already forgotten you.

But here’s the truth, the one you cannot twist—
I do not think of you.
Not in the morning, not in the night,
not in passing, not in dreams,
not in the soft, quiet spaces where real memories live.

You are static on a dying radio,
the hum of a lightbulb just before it flickers out,
the whining mosquito in a room too loud to notice.
I swat at you, absentminded, disinterested—
not out of malice, but because you do not matter.

Once, you might have been a storm,
but now?
Now you are weathered, faded, laughable.
A crumbling monument to your own delusions,
a temple built to a god that never was.

And I?
I do not pray there.
I do not kneel before the altar of your ego,
do not light candles in your name,
do not even spit upon the ground you walk on—
because even contempt would be too much attention.

I have mastered the art of not caring,
the ease of turning my back,
the beauty of never looking over my shoulder.
You are dust on the wind,
a whisper drowned out by the world moving forward.

And I?
I am the world.

I am moving forward.
And you?
You are simply—
not here.