11-29-2007, 09:23 PM
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[/html]"I don't know," he admitted, mildly — and distantly — thoughtful."I've never had a reason to care. Some of us just aren't wired with brilliant outlooks on life, hearts to give, or just the simple feeling that maybe there's a shred of purpose to life. Our lives would probably feel better if we did, but it's all the same in the end." And that was why he didn't care, because the great equalizer of existence balanced and nulled everything out in the end. There was no guessing or hoping or praying involved. It was all terribly futile, and it didn't matter who you were, what you were, what you did or how you lived. It didn't matter if you touched lives because in time they would be gone as well. It didn't matter if you loved because love was nothing more than emotion. And it sure as hell didn't make a difference if you gave a damn about this or that or this person or that place.
Castor fell silent once more and merely nodded, noting the pride in the voice and the face of the young boy. He might have smiled if it had not been terribly out of his character, allowing his approval to filter through. Arkham had his whole life in front of him, and though his youth meant being naive, he was not slamming doors or fencing off paths for himself as Castor had intentionally or unintentionally when he himself had been younger. He wasn't sure whether he envied the boy or he pitied him. It was difficult, wherin the two concepts merged seamlessly, and the large black dog and the small dark dog had perspectives that contrasted as night and day, varying with the weather.