May 24
Riches I count for little, and love I laugh to scorn; and the craving for fame was only a dream that vanished with the morning.
Poems (freely rendered)
Listening mode
Riches I count for little, and love I laugh to scorn; and the craving for fame was only a dream that vanished with the morning.
There is a way of not wanting something that sounds very decided. You say that recognition matters little to you, that money doesn't tempt you. And perhaps you say it a little faster than the question required.
From the outside it is hard to tell whether someone has left a desire behind or has taken refuge from it. Often from the inside, too. Both feel calm as long as none of it comes within reach. The difference tends to show when it does happen after all: someone praises you unexpectedly, and you notice how often you repeat the sentence to yourself afterwards.
That doesn't make your indifference a lie. Some turning away begins as protection and over time becomes real. You stop comparing yourself, first out of caution, later because it genuinely no longer occupies you. When the one passed into the other can hardly be pinned down.
The only striking thing is that what has truly become a matter of indifference to you no longer needs an answer from you. You no longer have to laugh at it.
