I’m sorry, Mr. President.
I’m sorry, Uncle Joe.
I’m sorry, NYT and WaPo and Atlantic and everyone else.
Most of all: I’m sorry, Twitter.
I just can’t care right now.
The fever pitch has been so high for so long—with almost zero consequences to show for it—that expending any more mental energy seems superfluous at best, damaging at worst. If Trump is impeached, I predict absolutely nothing will happen. If he isn’t, again, nothing will happen. Nothing real, anyway. There will be shrieking, of course, no matter the outcome, but real-world consequences will never arrive—and if they do, they’ll be inconsequential.
Aside from the constant noise, another thing fuels my apathy: This life is temporary. Martyrs have endured far worse—actual civilizational collapses, for one. And today, millions of Christians are murdered in the Middle East. I have a hard time forcing myself to keep up with every stupid thing that slithers out of Trump’s jowls.
So I’m happy listening to weekly podcasts that touch a bit on the news. I don’t need to be plugged in 24/7, and I sure as heck don’t need to study the minutiae of the maelstrom that is the news. Hopefully, I’m happier for it.