Ever since the girls were born I feel a strange sense of disinterest in self reflection. It isn't clear to me why this is so; but, in keeping with a general lack of desire to understand, I have very little interest in discovering why. Much of my life this would have troubled me. There were times when, if not drunk or stoned, I would have labored over discovering why I felt no care over my own motivation. Now, however, I just relax within a cacoon of disinterest and enjoy the sensual, shallow pleasure of food and drink.
Perhaps its fatigue. The girls have surely sapped my strength and energy like no other force before them. Sleep and relaxation are more precious than at any other time in my life. Even last night's five hours of sleep felt luxurious and refreshing compared to the neverending series of sleepless nights and crying babies.
Perhaps its contentment. There is no longer any fire inside, no hunger. I've realized all that I desire: beautiful wife, two gorgeous baby girls, nice house, challenging job, the respect of friends and colleagues. I've travelled the world (indeed, I'm half way around the world - twelve time zones from home - as I type this post.)
Perhaps I'm a jaded old man. There is little in life left to experience. I've seen pain and violence, death and hatred, hopeless poverty and the heights of opulence, passion, fear, debauchery and sin, plumbed the black abyss of my soul. Through it all I've witnessed mankind's ignorance, greed and sloth. I'm uninspired. Fat and happy. I have no compunction, no need, no desire to change. And I'm content to stay this way.
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