What I need to do?

Tell myself into the story that needs to be told. About the truth of kindness in all things.

But, wait. Is there also a truth of uncaring? There seem to be people who care more and care less. There are times that I care more or less. And things in all these things about which I or they care more or less. Struggling towards compassion and finding it hard. Barreling down on that last yard, foot, inch. Summoning mythic ancestors only a few steps from good-enough-for-gods. A final push. Review a poem. Find a poet. Nick Laird (Mr of Zadie Smith), of whom Alan Buckley is writing a review. I ordered two collections: first and most recent (I think) from bookshop.org. They got me Hollie McNish, Kae Tempest and David Kinloch recently.

Too much caring? Not enough? Stuck in a truly uncaring universe, there must be a Tao of uncaring that allows self-care to catch hold. And, be there to catch the telling?