The Value of Effort

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it.

You know: the tears, the hiding under an eiderdown or behind a public appearance of peace and calm, the sitting a chair aimlessly scrolling through Twitter looking for something to react to with an expression of wit (which is a barely concealed attempt to remind people you exist in the hope someone actually gives a crap), the careful recording of thoughts in a journal to remind you that things actually got done, all of that. All of that shit. Everything good and bad and up and down and progressive and constructive and regressive and self-​inflicted and loving and hating and everything possible in between. All of it without exclusion.

Is. It. Worth. It.

Am I worth it?

Do I care about me?

Does anyone care about me at all?

Does anyone who cares about me do so in any unselfish or non-​self-​interested manner; or are they merely doing it because they feel obligated to care, or hope to benefit somehow from doing so?

Who, if anyone, cares about anyone?


Then, out of nowhere I see a cat silently ‘meow’ at me.

Suddenly I don’t worry about anything anymore and spend five minutes scratching its ears, and the world disappears for a while.