(no subject)
Haven't been back here in a long time. Not sure how I like it here, anyway; it's like going to a graveyard to think. Peaceful, and tranquil, and empty.
Then again, I do love going to graveyards to think.
I think it would be best if no one talked about me with me, and if I didn't talk about myself with anyone. It makes me hate myself, which is not the fault of my loved ones at all; it's my own bloody fault, and I know that.
Doesn't make it hurt less.
If I could be any self, then I wouldn't. "I" would be totally subsumed by the world around me. The body is inevitable, unless I wanted to die, but the self would not exist because the self would be devoted entirely to the material aid of others (not the self-aid because I am not stupid or proud enough to think that I can touch even one other soul). The self would forget itself, and it would die.
That would be the ideal, I think. Not a particularly happy ideal, but what I'd like the most, certainly.
The other best options . . . returning to a search for perfection. Which would kill me. Paring myself down to what is most clean and pure, slicing away all of the extraneous self, would breed a certain satisfaction . . . and also kill me.
It's sad that the things I would do if I could are all things that would kill me. A little funny, too, but mainly sad.
My problem, therefore, is in finding a path that is equal parts tenable, survivable, and fulfilling. Since I am an extremely suggestible person (I tend to follow others' paths when they put them before me, especially with such force as I have recently had paths put before me), I will not find my own path if I talk about it with others. I will only find others' paths, and I will hate myself for not following them, and I will hate myself more because my inability to follow them will feel like failure rather than like what it is--an imperfect fit.
So this is why I don't want to talk about myself with others--even with those I love. Because it will not help me find a path, and it will only lead me to misery--which is not in any way the fault of those I love.
Then again, I do love going to graveyards to think.
I think it would be best if no one talked about me with me, and if I didn't talk about myself with anyone. It makes me hate myself, which is not the fault of my loved ones at all; it's my own bloody fault, and I know that.
Doesn't make it hurt less.
If I could be any self, then I wouldn't. "I" would be totally subsumed by the world around me. The body is inevitable, unless I wanted to die, but the self would not exist because the self would be devoted entirely to the material aid of others (not the self-aid because I am not stupid or proud enough to think that I can touch even one other soul). The self would forget itself, and it would die.
That would be the ideal, I think. Not a particularly happy ideal, but what I'd like the most, certainly.
The other best options . . . returning to a search for perfection. Which would kill me. Paring myself down to what is most clean and pure, slicing away all of the extraneous self, would breed a certain satisfaction . . . and also kill me.
It's sad that the things I would do if I could are all things that would kill me. A little funny, too, but mainly sad.
My problem, therefore, is in finding a path that is equal parts tenable, survivable, and fulfilling. Since I am an extremely suggestible person (I tend to follow others' paths when they put them before me, especially with such force as I have recently had paths put before me), I will not find my own path if I talk about it with others. I will only find others' paths, and I will hate myself for not following them, and I will hate myself more because my inability to follow them will feel like failure rather than like what it is--an imperfect fit.
So this is why I don't want to talk about myself with others--even with those I love. Because it will not help me find a path, and it will only lead me to misery--which is not in any way the fault of those I love.