Every Week, Autonomy
Navigating Indifference: Every Week's Tale of Autonomy and Inner Conflict
Lyrics
I gotta say, your indignant cynicism is a little bit contagious in its own way
Your indignant cynicism is contagious, and I acknowledge it in my own way.
And I can't help but tell myself that it's okay
I console myself, convincing that it's acceptable.
That I've slipped into this unexpectedly lengthy bout of indifference
I find myself in a prolonged state of indifference, unexpectedly.
Once upon a time these slumps would come and go
In the past, such slumps were temporary.
Lately though, I've been losing hope
Lately, however, I'm losing hope.
Where's it goin'? I don't even know
Uncertainty about the direction of life, with a sense of aimlessness.
Blown out with the gear and cones and durry smoke
Things have dissipated, mingled with remnants of gear, cones, and cigarette smoke.
Or stuttered out between uncertain words one of the times that we last spoke
Communication is faltering, perhaps during a recent conversation.
Can't shake the feeling that I'm pissing away my time
A persistent feeling of wasting time haunts me.
With every week, autonomy looks more like just a life of crime
Each passing week makes personal freedom seem more like a criminal existence.
I used to write about the privilege of apathy
I used to write about the privilege of apathy.
Used to have a million different ways of phrasing
I had numerous ways to express my frustration with those who only talk but don't act.
My disdain for lack of action from the ones that talk the talk
Now, I can't remember the last time I actively supported my words with actions.
Now fucked if I recall the last time that I bothered trying to walk the walk
Memory eludes me regarding when I last made an effort or cared.
Or even the last time that it bothered me that I don't give a fuck
Indifference doesn't bother me anymore.
Can't shake the feeling that I'm pissing away my time
Reiteration of the feeling of wasting time and a life veering towards criminality.
With every week, autonomy seems more like just a life of crime
Every passing week reinforces the notion that personal autonomy is akin to a life of crime.
It's not that I'm not happy
I am not unhappy; however, contentment has made me complacent.
It's not that I'm not content
Content but unexpectedly complacent, contrary to my expectations.
Just never thought I'd grow complacent
I never anticipated growing complacent and embodying what I resent.
And become all that I resent
Reflecting on becoming the very thing I despise.
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