I have this stupid dream where I have been given an Oscar for the best screenplay and I walk up to the stage all cool in my crisp and smart suit, take the statuette, air-kiss the presenter on both the cheeks and walk up to the microphone. And as I look into the vast seated crowd in the amphitheater, I look at the seat next to mine in the audience, where I sat a few minutes ago. It is empty. My awards acceptance speech thanked my parents and my friends, but there is no one next to me to dedicate the award to, you know, the “Love of my life” speech. Am I going to end up alone? On ambitious days, this is my go to dream. It makes my surroundings disappear for the moment and I escape into the virtual reality of daydreaming. On normal days it is just visualizing about a nice home, you know. Sharing it with someone special – nothing grand – a small apartment, but yes, there is sharing. On bad days, the apartment is empty, and I find myself looking at myself alone in the apartment. When I turn in my bed in the middle of the night and reach out there is no one and I grasp thin air. When I walk in the apartment, the only noise is me shuffling around. When I cook, I cook for myself. When a dance number comes on I dance myself silly, and when I roll a joint, I smoke it up all, and go into the limitless confines of my head. When I hum, I almost hear an echo, and when I make my bed, it is very easy – creases on only one side. On the bad days the dream is very much like the life I lead today. It is not a horrible vision, but an incomplete one, and one that poses the question – “What if I end up alone?” “But bro! You should love yourself! Why seek someone else! Be independent!” Of course, I love myself, and in a way we all do. I love my adolescent pot belly, my non-Greek nose, and bad jokes. I love scratching my belly and laughing at my own jokes, I love my nose too, I wouldn’t swap it with any other in the world. But the feeling would be completely different if someone else accepted my belly for what it is and scratched it as I do, laughed at my jokes as I do, the feeling is shared, and it somehow feels more than just what it is. You carry your inner self in your hands and offer it to the other person. Sometimes they will accept you as it is. Sometimes it is rejected outright. Sometimes the person will accept you and you will grow with the person. Sometimes the person will call you wretched names. And what happens after is that you dig and bury your self deep inside and move around with a self that is not you. But now many people like you. And suddenly you have a person to hold in the middle of the night, a person to cook for. A person to laugh at your jokes – because they got different. But, hey. You got a person.

“What if they do not like me?”

The same happens when you walk into a crowd with something to offer, and the fact that you have something to offer is a big deal. Not a lot of people have anything to give. That something might be pleasant talk, singing, ability to make good food, or just silence – the subtle art of listening. Some people might love the jokes, but some people do not like the quiet ones, and hence you are hurt – how could someone not like the most polite thing in the world – the ability to listen?

And what happens after is we keep that thing deep inside us and bring out something that is not really ours – something we found on the road or in a place that was alien – an ability to speak enthusiastically. Suddenly, the group that hated you for being silent, suddenly loves you. But the thing you shared was not you, and somewhere deep inside you, the voice that made you sensitive and caring disappears.

But hey, they like you now.

When you look back in retrospect, those “What if” questions were actually an indicator of sincerity and innocence and naivety. But somehow, somewhere you buried it deep in your backyard of life and became confident. Suddenly you don’t give a fuck because those questions were called insecurities. Now you do not give a fuck what other people think anymore. The old you did. He actually cared what other people thought, and that is why he got hurt.

The old you listened. The old you did favors just because. The old you went out of your way to help. The old you was concerned how the world would turn out to be. The old you cared about “stupid” things like stray dogs and prostitutes and random strangers.

But we called them insecurities.

And that is when the “What if”s changed to “I don’t give a fuck”s

“I don’t give a fuck if you do not listen.”

“I do not give a fuck if you got hurt.”

“I do not give a fuck if I interrupted your sentence.”

“I do not give a fuck if you are feeling sad. Get over it.”

And then we are stunned when the world fails to show sensitivity towards an issue.

Why?

Because you didn’t include the guy in your group because he didn’t look cool. Because that awkward girl in braces stuttered while forming a sentence, you laughed at her.

The arrogant sleep sound.

…while you twist and turn in your bed when someone speaks to you rudely.

‘What ifs’ are not insecurities. People who ask them actually care about other people. And people who say ‘I do not give a fuck’ actually give a damn very deep inside. You cannot take it out of people, really.

Wait a minute, what if I’m wrong about it all?

What if “I don’t give a fuck.” is the real way to survive this world?

What if…