Ode to Narcissism

Am I Headed For The Same Brick Wall?

Just some thoughts on my mind today.

Sometimes spending time with yourself is ok.  Really.  And maybe everyone else had this figured out long ago, but it took me some time and a lot of feeling really low and unlovable and just downright pathetic for me to finally figure it out.  I mean it.  I have been the loneliest of the lonely.  And it was painful.  But my god… it feels so good to know that even if I die alone, I’ll be in good company.  My own.  And fuck it if that sounds arrogant.  I am not the greatest person in the world by all standards (or maybe any standards), but I’m good enough for myself, and that means something to me.

Now on to honesty.  I want to be an honest person.  I want to be someone that can, when the time is right, cut the bullshit and face something head-on, even when it’s unpleasant.  I want to be the type of person that can observe his crying, look into his eyes, and tell him that for now it is over, and that I am not in love, and that I will try to be there for him, if I can, but if I can’t, I’ll go.  And that no matter how much it hurts, and I know how bad it can get, he will have to move on.  And I want to be able to say that in the most sincere and least narcissistic way possible.  I loved you, but it’s over.  And I’m sorry.

Now you can go your way, and I can go my way.

I don’t know if I will ever have kids.  I almost did, once, but I didn’t.  And that “almost” was fleeting and quick to die.  I think babies are cute.  I like children, and yes, like most people, I also become annoyed at their antics and noises sometimes, but generally I don’t hate kids.  I just don’t know if I am cut out to have any.  The only time I really think about having children is when the person I am with expresses a desire to have children.  It is not something I would think of on my own.  This makes me wonder if I will one day end up like those horrible excuses for mothers and human beings who have children simply to satisfy their lover/boyfriend/husband/whatever.  And if that’s the case, I should be sterilized now.  At the same time, the thought of having a child does not frighten me so badly anymore.  Maybe it is because I am getting older.  Maybe I do have a maternal instinct or whatever sexist term they use for the “calling” to have children.  I don’t know anymore.  Maybe I would be a great mother.  Or maybe I would be a terrible and selfish mother.  How much thought should I put into this?

I like the names Lily, Zooey, and Sophia for girls… and Elizabeth.  And Sylvia Louise, for Sylvia Plath and Louise Erdrich.  Wouldn’t that be sweet.

A Plague of Doves is still waiting to be read in my room.  I think I keep putting it off because I hate the wait between books so much.  I have been waiting a long time for this one, and I want to savor it.  I don’t want the experience to be over so quickly.

There is something about the feeling of a man’s hands running through my hair that I can not get enough of.  That, and the sweet, warm kisses they give you right at your temple when you’re lying in bed together, real quiet and sort of sleepy-like.  That is the stuff that makes all of the other bullshit worth it.  Or maybe it just seems that way now, pre-bullshit. 

“Am I headed for the same brick wall?” 

I guess I’ll find out.