: concerned with the individual rather than society; taking the ego as the starting point in philosophy
There is the question of why I am not who I was—why I do not write the same, or why people have not met the previous versions of me in present day. The fact of the matter is that I changed. Those moments are reflections of that time, and even still those are not entirely accurate. It all became a curation of what was versus what it was intended to be, leading to me losing sight along the way. I tried to hold on to the versions of myself that I thought would be better suited for those around me, only to find out that it wasn’t about anyone else in the first place. The stories I told myself and chose to live by only made things worse. Hilarity.
By clinging on to what made me “me”, I deviated from what was idealized for the path I have chosen for myself. In turn, it has also reflected in character shifts that have been detrimental to my progression. Instead of being vocal and full of life outwardly, I cowered and suppressed myself into a shell. That shell has been full of contradictions, self inflicted tendencies, and burned bridges. Some would say this was necessary. The story I have clung to is no longer mine and more-so of a mask to maintain the status quo.
What does any of this mean?
I found myself saying I am sick of my own shit over the years, but not sick enough to begin again with compassion. Any half hearted attempts would be met with thoughts that funneled into the spiral of self induced hell. Doing and saying things for what? To be resentful, miserable, hoping that things would be reciprocated. To not be alone and included, all to ultimately ostracize myself. None of it made any sense, yet it was real enough for me to be chained to. With so many messy situations and circumstances, it was best for me to shut the hell up out of not being qualified to speak.
What a shitty way to live. What have we learned?
I thrive with communication in the safety of this space. The neglect of not only this, but myself, has been a pain in the ass. Cussing people out for playing with me may not be the best way to handle things of course—unless driven to that point of no return. Death comes in rapid succession: physically, metaphorically, sonically, emotionally, the list goes on. The act of falling and burning to rise again has been something that seemed like self aggrandizement. Hell actually has a basement, a bunker, and some trampolines if you really want to get into it. It felt like a good time for a long time at the cost of everything, because I hated myself. It showed through neglect.
It has been amazing to have experiences and opportunities that have helped cultivate the space I am in currently. Truthfully it is far from comfortable, yet I have found a way to bob and weave in the midst of things. I have found ways to sit down and truly think about what I am writing, the purpose it serves, and why I want to even put it in this format.
How does all this lead to ego(centric)?
This is a new age for myself. I would not classify it as a revival, due to the many funerals I have extended to myself thus far. This is intended to be vaguely personal, a series of thoughts, feelings, and intentions dispersed however I see fit.
