Illusions, and other powerful things.
My self-centredness angers me sometimes.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how self-centred we (I) can be sometimes.
It’s been getting to me.
A tidal wave.
A red-hot bubble of rage.
A deep, dark vortex of self-disgust and shame.
Monstrous, human, fearsome, afraid.
I’m scared
of myself.
I love
myself.
I don’t know what’s right or what’s real.
These possibilities, these potentialities, all with such intensity, all jostling for space. To be seen, to be heard, to be known.
And isn’t that what we all want, at the end of the day?
When we break, we open. Sometimes for the first time. Sometimes at the same time.
As I break, I ask myself, what are you trying to deny, hide or run away from?
It’s so easy for us to talk about ourselves. But what else do we have to talk about? What else do we really, truly, know anything about?
The walk home can be a lonely one. But everything else is self-indulgent.
And self-knowledge is also an illusion of sorts.
It assumes a level of knowledge, insight and experience —or at least conjecture, and perhaps also superiority — that is, in my opinion, unwarranted.
I like to think that I know myself fairly well, and yet I am also a mystery to myself.
I am not better than you. You are not better than me. We are all flawed. We are all failing. Some of us are just better liars than others.
I’m not trying to change the world. Right now, I’m not even trying to change myself.
I’m trying to (f*cking) be with myself.
Everything else comes after.
For that’s the hardest,
and most beautiful, and most powerful
and most grounding, and most life-affirming
thing
of all.