This is no concern of mine

Often I appear to be indifferent. I concede an argument about existential questions, or when a seat in the subway becomes available I leave it to others. What is a matter of wrong or right, true or false, I leave laying aside. I mostly do not express a strong preference or outspoken opinions, and listen with but a half ear to others’. I remain silent when people sneak past me while waiting in line.

People take me for empty headed or they think I am shy. Perhaps, some believe, I am bashful to assert my rights. When I overpay, or someone deceives me, I accept this willingly, and I observe a person’s ego flourish of pride, a smirk glimmering like a diamond on their dull face. Fools think nothing of me, which does not disturb me, while nitwits are bored by my presence. But all this has no value nor meaning to me.

My apparent absence of thought however is not a lack of reflection, an incapacity to abstract beyond my direct impressions. I have cultivated, generated and expanded this denial of concern. I remain out of the circles of petty obligation that span from regular social interaction, not even do I mind that you stand in the course of my sun light.

Alas, who has any idea of stoic principles in our age, who recognizes that depth of complete absence of responsability? This silence that sooths, this darkness that caresses my weakest sensibilities, is my greatest treasure. I keep it out of the paths of your actions, here it remains in the atmosphere of my undergoing.

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