It doesn't feel like anything is going wrong.

Not from where I'm sitting on the top of this hill. My little grassy knoll. My vantage point reveals nothing of the turmoil beneath the topsoil.

No one talks directly about it. No one just comes up and says, "Oh my god, can you believe how bad it is out there?" No one is protesting anymore. No one is raising their hand in class. No one wants to get involved.

And neither do I.

It doesn't seem like this is my fight. I am so disconnected from all of this, I have no idea what to think. I have no idea what to do, because I'm done. Maybe I couldn't do anything in the first place, but it sure seemed like I could. It seemed like saying something was doing something, but it's nothing.

No one is listening.

My votes don't count. My words fall into an echo chamber that bounce the sounds around so much, they come out as gibberish. My jokes aren't funny. My style is non-existent. My feelings are irrelevant.

And the horror story goes on.

Every day I get up and see if anything really bad has happened today. And, more often than not, something bad has happened. Something worse than the day before. But I can do nothing. We see the fire, but they took our hoses away. Water doesn't work anymore anyway.

At the same time, it all touches me less and less.

Much like successive punches to the face, the pain becomes less as the fist continues to land. I can't feel anything anymore. Nothing makes any sense to me.

Was it always this way? Have I just turned my gaze away from the scene of the accident because it doesn't impress me anymore? Is this my anesthetic to it all: indifference?

I remember having a different outlook. I remember being hopeful for the future. I remember thinking something good would happen, just because there is good somewhere in the world. And now, I'm on a never ending down slope of the roller coaster.

But if it is a roller coaster, doesn't it have to come back up? Shouldn't there be more than just going down, going down, going down now? I mean, who designed this thing? Did they just keep digging a whole or what?

When I shut it off and sit on the little grassy hill, I can't see any of this happening. No one reminds me of the things I cannot see.

Is my head in the sand? Or do I want to have my head in the sand? Is it better that way? No one says. You can't talk with your head in the sand. You can't hear the questions, either.

The gentle breeze carries nothing of any of this to my ears. But at least I'm still breathing the air. At least I haven't started digging the whole for my head.

But I do have a shovel.

Matt Worley has nothing to say.