There is no Universal truth about it; this matter of “what matters” is plainly incongruous.
As it turns out, what matters to me does not typically correlate with what I think that matters to me. There is a difference: the first is tied up to my gut feelings; the second, to my assumptions. My expectations. Conjectures. In one word, to my lunacy.
Being concerned about what gives the impression to be but may not be, is certainly senselessness. And somewhat alarming.
I have a tendency to care for the illusory. For what I think is factual but disorderly shows itself as nothing. The nothing.
As it changes its form, I am left perplexed and deranged; is it me or this whole case is flat out unsettling?
I would rather hear plain-spoken words and see coherent actions. But one can never measure the level of mazy mania inside somebody’s else’s head.
What really matters, I guess, is to just matter indifferently.
A reasonable amount of exposure, to avoid having your heart brutally torn apart. To prevent a ruthless exchange that will leave you wondering if there has ever really been a slice of veracity between what you believed, and what you are witnessing.
What should really matter is, that even when what matters to me is not nearly close to what matters to you; we don’t put an end to each other while trying to prove who is right and who is wrong.