There is something repugnant about trying to be selfless. I mean, all of us are selfish at our core, but somewhere along the line of life we get tangled and caught up on invisible wires of morality and values and everything that has come down from generations as stale gifts and which are sometimes better left unopened. We go through the path, saving ourselves from imaginary thorns and waging an endless battle between God knows how many and whose voices within our head. I can't help feeling selfish. I can't help feeling nonsensically jealous and petty and everything wee once in a while. I live among a web of circumstances, and I can't help reacting to them. And I certainly can't stand the thought of posing as a martyr of sacrifice when it doesn't feel right and when it doesn't agree with my soul. All these come with the package of being me, of being human. The more I try and deny their existence, the more they bang on my closed doors waiting to be acknowledged. It would perhaps be better to just let them in, hear their wails and cries, and then let them grow on to maturity. It doesn't mean you will see me running down the streets and snatching ice creams from every little kid, or sweeping up all the pencil jeans at a sale for myself. Oh, and nor will I shut away 'sacrifice', because there have been circumstances where I have gladly done it, no matter how little or big. It only means I will not deny myself anything that happens to peep into my life. I will not close away ( or at least try not to) and hide behind the non-existent door of 'reality'. This word just seems to be blurring away like an inconsequential blot.
I am inconsequential too, an invisible dot in this vast universe. And so are my armful of everything I have. Maybe I could rather gather my hay while the sun shines, instead of seeking the shade of seeds chewed by many.
