Man Of Few Words

Chapter 12

Thinking back to that time of my life, the earliest time that I can remember, really made me realise just how intense and powerful that infantile sense of wonder and curiosity really is. And it's made me ask myself, "When did I lose it? When was the last time I just plunged deep into the blue with both hands? And why haven't I done it again?"

When did I stop caring?

I look out of that window, and I don't give a shit. I don't want to go out there and experience it, feel it, get it all over myself. I don't want to show my mummy.

I can't remember not feeling like this.

I mean, I suppose I can. I remember being three, of course. And I remained pretty curious and intrigued by the world throughout my childhood and into my teens even. But those feelings are long gone now, and I miss them.

I want to want to go to the bottom of the garden and lift up a rotting log and just stare for hours at the teeming life beneath. I want to want to. But I don't want to. Not at all.

Did it disappear overnight, and I just didn't notice? Or was it slowly eroded away by adulthood? Does this happen to everyone? Surely not. We wouldn't have scientists and artists and explorers if some adults didn't retain that curiosity, and that hunger to just... try it.

We'd have slightly fewer accidental deaths too, I suppose. But you've got to take the rough with the smooth.

Curiosity seems to be what drives many people. But not me. So what does drive me?

Simple mathematics: minimum effort for maximum reward.

Once I figured out that that was the path I was on, that that would be my measure of progress and success, then that... yes, that was when I ceased to be curious. I had it all figured out. Why take any interest in anything outside of the path? I remained somewhat curious, I suppose – I always wanted to know how I could get even more money for writing even fewer words. But the magic and wonder was gone. It had become mechanical. I got a kick of sorts out of each step toward my ultimate goal – which was, in theory, to be paid all the money in the entire world for writing just one, single-letter word. But I stopped experiencing anything like the glee of slapping my tiny, pudgy hands into a pool of paint.

It's funny how watching paint dry is considered the epitome of boredom, because I'm starting to think that watching paint be wet might just be the height of excitement.

That was rash.

I, er... just threw a full glass of water at the wall opposite me. It was a bit of a pathetic throw though, to be honest. The glass bounced off the dining table, then the lower part of the wall, then it tumbled to the floor. I'm not even sure if it broke.

There's a puddle on the corner of the table. The light's catching it, and I can see dust particles all over its surface. Some of the water splashed onto the wall, narrowly missing 'sup'. At least, I think so.

I'm staring at that splash on the wall. I'm staring at the water on the wall. And I'm crying now. There's water on the wall. There's water in my eyes. There's water on my face. I'm watching the paint on the walls be wet. And it's doing absolutely fucking nothing for me.