The Angst of an Apathist

I was very good at lying, so good in fact, that telling these fables of mine became painless.

I felt nothing.  No pangs of a moral compass.  Nothing piercing my conscience.  In fact, I think my conscience was a casualty of all of this.  But who was to say?  And what was this?

There was no tangible discomfort.  I began to think it was a sleeping giant of sorts, waiting for it all to rumble from my insides and up into my synapses.

And one day, for better or worse, most likely for the worse, these lies would catch up with me.

I was out of breath just thinking about it--until I wasn't.

I figure they ache like an untended wound.

But I wasn't one for the future or the past,

no memories to break my heart,
no dreams to fabricate,

nothing to show for it nowadays---