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’m not.

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.

Thank you.


About heathencomehome

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