A selective empathetic is a more sinister evil than the outright unempathetic. The unempathetic is quite small in numbers, and are under more scrutiny. The selective empathetic is one of reflective desire, picking and choosing those to be glad for and wishing to prosper based off of desired personal gain, gain that involves putting others down in the process. This level of empathy is pure submission to outside preachers, outside systems, media, literature, art, and economics, and represents a dark and fallible inner sense. Letting things simply happen, apathetic to their greater truth, nihilistic in meaning, and a walking product of guiding forces around them. A pure empathetic is empathetic to all in all situations, noticing the humanity in all. It is sad to notice the selective empathetic being a prevalent and lauded endeavor, when the qualities of such selective empathetic are thought of also as manipulation. A great contradiction in social morality and personal character judgeme
The moment you look at yourself and realize you are becoming your ideal.
The look around yourself in astonishment, the belief it is happening.
The risks you've taken are a truth. The risks fastly make you stronger, and they are the ones that make you feel good.
You look at your bicep in admiration. You look at your eyes telling you that you've done it. It's finally happening.
The true question is if this is truly the end of your road, even though it's occured already.
How could it be though, you still haven't accomplished what you wanted to?
Why do you feel empty after the accomplishment?
What is it you're doing to yourself? Why do you think torture is fun?
It is better to dance stupidly than to analyze yourself intelligently.
And it is better to love yourself than to die a hating scrooge.
But your eyes are telling you about that this must happen again.
How? You've worked hard, why must it happen again?
Because life will force you to keep up, and it is one strong ass motherfucker.
You look at your broken feet, you look at your brain lacking glucose, you look at your nose dripping with the lies you're telling yourself.
The task is a bruting one at that man. You fucked up trying.
You look at the task with fierce eyes and defeat it for more than eighty years.
Yet your force wasn't good enough at eighty-one.
And you lie mouthing the words "it's been a good life."
But there they stand in front of you.
The loved ones you've neglected. Who have felt they weren't neglected actually. If only they knew what it could've been like, maybe they wouldn't pretend to care about you.
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