the selfish

November 1st, 2022

Oh, to be one’s self. Myself, herself, themselves. Hardly ever ourselves. And for a long time now, it’s been mostly yourself.

What is the self anyway? Our essence, or what distinguishes us? And consequently, what does selfish mean? Perhaps selfishness is but only a matter of context, and perspective. Perhaps an intrusion of ego that takes over in crucial moments, or perhaps just the act of not seeing the other self right in front you.

I’ve been busy, you can tell. Thinking and over thinking. Maybe the therapy session today turned some wheels - I haven’t had too many of those yet. Decisions are being taken, discussions are to be held but avoided for the time being, and questions are to be raised. Acts of selfishness are on the agenda, the blind to one’s eye but clear to another’s. The fool. The egoist. The self-centered.

The ego is stubborn. It chooses not to see, and to deny. It disregards the ones it loves and cares for, without its carrier even noticing it. Oh the ego, oh the self. Does it ever change? Molds? Cracks? Only experience can tell.

I feel, just ever so slightly, in control of the selfish in me. I’ve come to notice that what I give importance to has been disregarded. That decisions have been taken alone, by another self. I’m just not sure what weapon to fight this battle with. In the same way selfishness injures, it defends; and attacks. I’m tempted to choose selfishness too, but I’m sure I won’t. As soon as I see his face, it’s over. I choose to fight with love. I tend to choose love.

The hopeless romantic is my self. Not one who is blind to their own selfishness, but the one who can’t seem to let go of love. The one who holds so tightly to the idea of forever and that love conquers all. That no matter the pain, love will heal. The one who needs to be more selfish at times. The one who will do anything for as long as love lasts. The one who appreciates and demonstrates affection. The hopeless. The romantic. The stubborn. The fool, just like the selfish.

Is it ever my turn to be selfish? Or is waiting for his permission, to allow me to be selfish, a self-careless act? When do I choose myself? When will I feel that what’s important to me has to be taken into consideration? Am I sacrificing for love? Being a fool, perhaps? Questions and questions. I could keep going.

I usually don’t get too philosophical. I mostly just barf my feelings out into the keyboard of my small laptop. But today, this feels investigative. Like a literal brainstorm inside my head. Snow and wind, and sunshine and rainbows. Followed by a quick and sudden tropical rainstorm with thunders and lightnings, finishing up with my favorite: the sunset sky in pastel-blue, dipped in baby-pink clouds, like the old, European paintings.

The sky brings me back to November and to the train that’s about to arrive. I’m on my way back home from work. I shut my brain down with a pair of earphones and all of sudden, Kim Petras is screaming inside of me. Peace. Enough questions. Perhaps writing this journal is selfish.

I’m sure I’ll have my time to pour out my thoughts to someone who will listen, or maybe to my keyboard who seems to comfort me like not much else, and that’ll make me feel better. I’ll read it and think about it, over and over, for about two days. And then I’ll forget about this entry, and how what’s happening in my relationship right now was ever an issue.

- Ms. Rodwell