Sometimes I wonder if I’m heartless.

I go about and I hear the stories of heartbreak and tears—the girl whose boyfriend broke up with her, the man whose wife left him, the child who ran away just to be free. The world apologizes and cries for these people without caring about the details, all which spell out the truth.

The girl never left her boyfriend alone, calling every ten minutes, crying when he didn’t reply to her text within five seconds.
The man cheated on his wife—just once, of course, and he didn’t mean to.
The child was rebellious towards his parents who asked no more of him than to do his chores and go to school.


But it’s never the details that matter. Why shouldn’t we feel sorry for them, the ask? They are victims, they say.

I don’t see it that way. I don’t feel sorry for people who get themselves into trouble and don’t even feel sorry for their own actions that got them there. A mistake is one thing; and arrogant heart is another.

It’s not only the dramatic tales I turn a cold heart toward. It’s the people I know who cry out for attention through their actions, the people who dress a certain way to gain popularity, the people who cling and who leech upon the arms of others. Anyone and everyone. I don’t even find dogs cute, or at least not most. I put my dog outside and while others nearly mourn for her suffering,
I see that she is a dog, that will be alright for an hour on her own. I can seem to find fault in an instant, and it kills me because this is not who I ever wanted to be.

I see it in my mother. I must have learned it from her, aside from the fact that it’s likely my own sin nature.

I know she learned it from her mother too, but not because her mother was the same way. Her mother… She’s a nut job.

But that’s a story for another time.