I'm not sure if it's reassuring or not to discover sightings by others of The Great Indifference in the landscapes of their exploration. Part of me would like my own sightings of this absent phenomenon to remain my own, and something I could attribute to my own heightened imagination or broken psychology. But, when I read the writings of others who have apprehended the same seeming nothing, the same distant, cold and indifferent nothing, the same vacuum absence of caring warmth, or sentient sympathy, or knowing oversight, or guiding wisdom; those who describe this thing I've found in the desert beyond Siberia, and can see now not only from the ghost town frontier, but from my own blessed of family living room and socially sanctified place of work, from the back of my motorcycle on my commute, and within the laughter of those whom I love and live for, and even between the flickering lights of entertainment projected through the television. This thing I can no longer not see. The apparent Indifference of the universe. The end which is now and the story which is told and the night which has always arrived and the ending which is forever. What to do when it isn't just me who sees this, but those who write the books I love, and the poems I read, and the stories I take in to provide some vain fabric of life substance which I will call real, and my own, and ours, and something significant, until my own light goes dim and is gone.
What to do when I can no longer call this vision my own or a feign illusion.
"This is the longed-for place, but it is so indifferent to my presence, so careless of my existence, that I might as well have not been here." -Adam Nicolson
My name is Kurt Bell.
You can learn more about The Good Life in my book Going Alone.
Be safe... But not too safe.