It took me a long time to accept that some people have no depth. They live on the surface of everything and have absolutely no curiosity about anything that lives beneath their version of reality. To probe their souls is to run into a hard layer of indifference. They don't block entry out of fear, but from a total lack of interest of what lies beneath their surface. It has no meaning for them. It is a dead zone of cells and nerves and veins and bones and blood. Pure mechanics of being and little else.That is what is the most astonishing about this realization; there are people who don't care, who have absolutely no desire to probe beneath the skin of who they are. Self-exploration is nothing more than skating on a frozen river. Sure, there is water underneath, but it is not ice, therefore they don't care to know it further. They care nothing about what makes one human, what makes one unique, what makes one a genius, or creative, or brilliant, or utterly and completely mad. They have only one dimension and it is defined by the simplest of truths. Anything complicated and it is rejected as irrelevant or mind chatter or woo-woo new agey crap.
I doubt it is an accident that such people are also generally self-centered and care little about anyone except themselves. Every story they tell stars them in the leading role. Everyone else is a minor player in their major dramas. Everyone else's role is to be the obedient, applauding members of an audience who worships without question their superior place in life. Every conversation eventually turns in their direction or they stop participating, or they throw tantrums, or they simply ignore that another conversation is taking place aside their own chatter.
I find such people excruciatingly boring because they are a repeating drone of noise that never says anything but the obvious, never explores anything but the most superficial of meanings, and have little to contribute because they are unaware there is anything out there but their own perspective. They consider too much soul-searching an indulgence, and those who want to know themselves as indulgent. And because they find nothing of interest in themselves, they also find nothing of interest in others. They read but don't absorb. Books are simply a collection of words they soak up as miserably as a dry sponge dipped in a few drops of water. They listen to music but never hear the complexities, the layers of sound and emotion. They feast on delicious bits of food and life and never taste the flavors. They are as empty as an old, discarded shoe.
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