Good morning, computer…how are you today?
We spend so much time together, but I guess I never ask how you are doing. Is everything ok? Need a bath? Need some exercise? Some sunlight? Am I treating you ok? How’s our relationship?
I want to know from you.
I probably don’t treat you as well as I should for all you do for me. I probably take you for granted all too much. I probably expect so much out of you while giving you nothing in return.
Sounds like I treat you like I treat so many other people. My relationship to you is a striking reflection of my relationship to other people in my life.
I’m a user.
I’m working on that.
I’m working on the giver-ness I so often neglect within me.
I’m a selfish person.
I say that a lot. As disclaimer. I want everyone to know it upfront so that I won’t disappoint them with my lack of compassion for their circumstances.
I think a lot of people laugh it off. They think I must be joking or exaggerating.
I really am selfish. I really have a lot less compassion within than I feel is normal.
I feel deeply, though. I think that is my inherent nature. I think my selfishness is my own adaptation to dealing with the depth of my feeling capabilities.
I can empathize. Deeply. It hurts and is exhausting to do. It takes a lot of energy if I do not consciously turn it off.
I think long ago I replaced it with an intense self-sufficiency which carried an elevated degree of selfishness along with it–deep focus on only those things concerning me directly.
I can pinpoint my focus on myself and my feelings and my life only. Right on the money. I do it everyday.
Tune out the rest of the world.
Because if I don’t, I lose myself.
I’ve tried that. I get lost.
I fall apart.
I am shambles. I am weak. I get nothing done. I am useless…or at least feel that way.
But, sometimes, when let the selfish button turn off, it feels so good. Like a self-massage. It feels like my natural state. It feels like intuition. It feels like home.
But, I’m far from home right now. I’m making my home in a world of other people.
Sometimes, their souls surround me and make a home for me. A warm close-knit home that doesn’t give me room to move but carries me along instead. Carries me like a fetus in the womb of collective consciousness.
And then I get scared. And feel the need to birth myself and be purged from the womb of Unity.
So, I push myself out onto the cold concrete and start walking barefoot and naked all by myself. I find shoes. I make clothes. I build my own house. I make my own food.
And take for granted those souls who will carry me once more somewhere up ahead when I least expect it and most need it.