He's so perfect!
He's so perfect!
So why don't you text him?
Well he doesn't text me!
But he does, right? He texted you just as we sat down.
He doesn't text me enough! I want him to want me! You know?
No, I don't know. What do you have against this guy, if he's so perfect?
He's that old, and single? There just has to be something wrong with him.
Can't you just try him on for size and figure out if there really is something wrong with him? There's no harm in that.
If I try him on and it doesn't work out, which it won't, then I'll be too old and perfect to be single. Then no one is going to try me on for size!
That's absolutely not true. There is so much wrong with you I could write a book about it. As a matter of fact, I will write a book about it! The first chapter, "He's so perfect!"
I resent that! You think this lack of support in frivolous matters of the heart is playful and endearing but it's not. Every time you point out my little inconsistencies or neuroses, it turns my lens inward for at least the rest of the day, if not the next few days. It's really not fair.
Well, if you weren't such a bitch about everything in your life maybe I wouldn't have such an endless supply of topics on which to lecture you. You know your life is perfect, right? For some god forsaken reason, someone as fundamentally ungrateful as you is the very person who is handed everything. When's the last time you paid for a meal? When's the last time you didn't get the promotion? I'm not a bitter person, but I think you need that lens reversal. Everything in your life works, despite your constant attempts to shed your blessings.
Blessings? You consider everything that's happened to be to be a blessing? I, and I alone, lead a truly charmed life. On a daily basis, I am robbed of my agency through grand and divine acts of goodness. My god! It's a curse more wretched than any series of misfortunes that one could wish upon their earthly form. You see me? You see my life? This is a tragedy like no other. Where is my arc? What sort of development can I look forward to? What trials are there for me to overcome. There is no journey here. I'm a story written by a child, an unimaginative one at that, who, in an autistically and desperately focused series of efforts, has created a perfect and flawless world in which to live their days instead of understanding their pathetically idle life and looking for ways to improve upon it themselves. Not a child - someone bound to their own meaningless existence that lives their days as if they themselves were this child. This is my curse!
Your desperate attempts to justify your own actions are just as pathetic as this man-child you seem so fixated on emulating. Surely, only through a mind so idle as yours could you even think yourself as a divine story. You, and sure, yes, you alone, experienced some strange luck in your early year's that have snowballed to your current position in society. You bind yourself! Your constant bids for useless action are an attempt to hide your own habitual idleness - thinking yourself a laborer, struck by the misfortune of good fortune, you believe yourself bound by circumstance. No! You are an agent of self-sabotage, entirely determined to fail to progress - not because you can't, but because you don't want to. And you expect all others to believe you uniquely bound by charm. Truly, I tell you that you are free! Why are you blind to this field ahead of you? Instead you choose to build-live an emotionally filthy pen of wallowment and self-pity. Stand up and look to what's ahead! All that you deny is directly there!
How can I hear your words now and believe them to be false!? This all is my lack-of-doing, in the most consistently lethargic way. My days are spent much like my nights - the dream-like false-action meant only to subject myself to the spiritual dredging through a moat of molasses. But if now I see that action and non-idleness is ahead of me, how do I cast away the thoughts that gravitate me back to a perfectly level-resulting catalogue of action? Is this not a curse of circumstance but instead one of the mind? My mind? As I have been rewarded a lack of external suffering, I've found that I've invented my own personal flavor of such. Only through some collection of right action can I clear this mucus and do something for the benefit of myself - the world! If I am motivated to escape an idle mind, I cannot do this through the recursive will of the mind itself. Am I compelled to act only through this internal deliberation? Is your spurring a sufficient needle to pierce my spiritual blemishes and let the puss of indignation escape my soul? I, perhaps, can only be compelled by my heart - not the idle heart that drives my concern of the thoughts of a man - but the bleeding heart, the spiritual heart that all humans are born with. And so I can run as a child does, newly recognizing that idle hands make for sprinting feet, and I can run to something goalless. No objective or threshold to breach and instead something that fills my spirit. Oh! I've never felt so weightless. Are you my confidant or my Gabriel? I am free!
And go!