It is funny how you see yourself, and given the nature of the books I have been reading lately (of the Axial Age, of political theology, of theological philosophy, of philosophical politicised theology), it is a grand tradition to explore these concepts. But all that is does is hold yourself (and by ‘yourself’ here I mean ‘me’) up short. The prism through which you look refracts in all the wrong dimensions. To which the only conclusion I can come to is that I am ‘not quite’.
Who do you compare yourself to? Your peers? All that status anxiety? That you are not quite as well off as them, that you are not quite as talented as them, that you are not quite in their league. It is easy to look at everyone else and come up short, because, well, you just are not quite tall enough.
Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.
Is there a difference between yes and no?
Is there a difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear?
What nonsense!
The books that you read, the tales of those who do. That you are not quite adventurous enough to follow the trail, that you are not quite attractive enough to be noticed, that you are not quite coherent enough to stand out. When did it become so obvious, then?
Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox.
In spring some go to the park, and climb the terrace, but I alone am drifting not knowing where I am.
Like a new-born babe before it learns to smile, I am alone, without a place to go.
Or is it that you always seek better, and by seeking better, surrounding yourself with better, that invariably, evidently, obviously, you are always going to be not quite as good? But Ο σοφωτατοσ εστιν οστισ τον οιδει οιδει οιδεν a wise man once said (and an eldest child helped with the endings). And to be sure that is me, not quite knowing anything.
Others have more than they need, but I alone have nothing.
I am a fool.
Oh, yes!
I am confused.
Other men are clear and bright, but I alone am dim and weak.
Other men are sharp and clever, but I alone am dull and stupid.
The journey is long, and striving to infuse the ego with stuff is a misguided pursuit, given that the self is an illusion. But there is so much to know, so many people to argue with, so many experiences I haven’t had (and some I never will), so much, too much, and too little time. For me. Not quite enough time, not quite enough money, not quite enough patience, not quite enough energy, not quite enough to blame it on anything other than the self.
Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea.
Without direction, like the restless wind.
Everyone else is busy, but I alone am aimless and depressed.
I am different.
I am nourished by the great mother.
Not quite vitriolic enough to be anything other than a self-obsessed whinge.
