One of my favorite, but most misunderstood essay-dealies was about no one giving a shit about you. I purposely used salty language to make a point, but the truth was I didn’t have a better way to articulate my idea. There are people who give a shit about you in this world. Thank goodness. I’m not a heartless monster who believes in a gloomy hellscape existence where all notions of empathy are questioned and that there is no one you can find that doesn’t have an ulterior motive for every move they make.
I save that type of thinking for Republicans. (Zing!)
No, what I meant was that no one really cares about what you think and what you are up to. The static we have in our head that insists that ‘people’ are going to say this or that about our decisions and our lives is imaginary. It is wholly manufactured by our dumb brains. People are too busy to care about the details about others. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a freeing thought. It is wisdom. However, it doesn’t keep me from having to learn that lesson over and over again.
I wrote a post about black history and my admiration of black Americans. I wrote that piece a few years ago. I never let anything sit that long. If I do, I delete because it sucks, or I’m no longer interested in it. But that one, I wanted to get right. I didn’t want to come off as insensitive or dumb, or lame, or racist, or an asshole. I also wanted to avoid being vague. I wanted to be true to my feelings and try to keep it entertaining or at least interesting to read. So, I finally rewrote it for the fourth time and posted it a few weeks ago.
You know what happened? Nothing. Almost no one noticed at all. More people read the one where I reminisced about Luke Skywalker. Why? Because nobody gives a shit. I’m not whining about a lack of readership, I’m talking about the world, here.
I worked on that piece for me. Me. That’s it. That is the reality. I wanted it to be good so it would be something I would be proud of. Now, in my head, there were daydreams of reposts and comments and a host of congratulatory delusions. But those weren’t real. It was just me, and what I decided to write.
The internet tricked me. Again.
The internet does that to us all. The truth is, I do create books that I want the world to read. The internet is one way to get them out there. But most of the time, my presence on the web is like yours. Photos, social media, opinions, emojis, clicking the ‘like’ button. We tend to think these posts matter. We tend to think that dropping opinions on a long political thread will mean anything to anyone. But they won’t. They never will. Why? Come on, you know this…
I made such a big deal about that black history post and the truth is that in all the important ways it was a success. I finished it and got it out there. Your opinion truly doesn’t matter to me. Just like if you support this ridiculous president, or the New England Patriots, or you like mint chocolate chip ice cream. What I strive to keep reminding myself is that almost none of these opinions are real, and they reflect only a tiny fraction about the person who uploads them to the internet. They are just ideas and they are frequently worded poorly.
I feel this post wavering, so I’ll try to reel it in.
We all hit a wall with social media because we feel it has become a wave of noise that will crest twenty feet above our heads and crush us under its weight. But just like that bloated metaphor, those things don’t exist. Those opinions, as hateful and fundamental stupid as they are, remain in the ether. Your thoughts and opinions are in the ether, too. They are ideas that can’t hurt you on their own and shouldn’t prevent you from living your life. That sounds simplistic and it probably is, but it is important to remember.
I almost let the imagined opinions of people who don’t really give a shit impede me from writing practice. How dumb does that sound?
