Narcissism.

There is a narcissism that I have learnt to internalize of late, to demonize to the extent that I've suppressed it. It used to be the fuel for my existence and for it I felt a deep guilt embellished by remorse. The dramatisation of my day-to-existence had become redundant, or so I sought to believe. I seek to believe too much. I compete with myself to attain the most perfect image of the idea I have most recently come to be enchanted by. It is wearing a different dress everyday and changing the facets of my personality to match it. It is the process of deliberate moulding to fit an intellect that I am so taken by.  I have been told that I am far too conscious of myself, that it is a simpler to shake a leaf by breathing upon it than to somehow slip into the cracks of my mind an insecurity. Perhaps I exhibit symptoms of only the human condition, particularly generic and classifiable. Again I speak from under the vistas of a persona I aim to please, one where madness is a glamour every pedestrian wishes to achieve. Yet the one constant is a bitter struggle to constantly change myself, to deter my existence from just being and navigate it to some semblance of greatness. A fleeting semblance at best, it is a short-term achievement that soothes my soul. Of late I have become concerned that my wrote is less romantic and technical, yet foundationally derivative. It is another persona that has sprung in me, an inclination to imitate, to imbibe without realizing that the inspiration I have thus extracted borders on plagiarism. I have discussed this fear, though not openly, for fear of being branded a fake (the personas I wear often co-exist and intermingle). I was handed with the realisation that perhaps all art is plagiarised and that all creation is preceded by some genetic mother and father. Does that in itself dismiss the notion of some seminal pioneer, the first of its breed? To me, therein lies the pursuit for the unique; therein lies the heart of greatness. My narcissism is situated upon an ego, much larger than is visible yet peeking out constantly from under the covers of my skin. It does not satisfy me to simply create, I must create so as to in-still wonder and amazement. Perhaps not the purest motive for creation I admit, and I concede that it is not the sole purpose, but it is an honest purpose if honesty is to be trusted and for that I am grateful. 

I have learned that passion alone can awaken you, but passion alone will not keep you awake. I have learned that there is a discipline to creation, lest your fire burn out and you are lulled back to sleep. Where creation is concerned, a corporal discipline is neither sufficient nor necessary but that your soul must become a vessel to creation. It must be malleable enough to receive it yet be conditioned with a steely resolve to contain it, to channel it. It almost seems as if I have stumbled onto the Buddhist truth of things and now all I must do now is to proceed to create. I wish it were that mechanical, so that I might be spared the mental agony of scrutiny and analysis and of the deficiencies thereby laid bare. Yet it is part of the process, or so urges my new-found sense of maturity. All my creation is a function of my existence and to extricate myself of it is the goal it seems. In this I find a dichotomy that has become the undercurrent of my listlessness, how do I proceed to create objectively when the source my source of creation is subjective? How do I create until I am actively incited, until my spirit is so vibrant that it can do nought but speak? My body is human, and prone to distractions and to the waxing and the waning of inspiration. I find no guarantee in methods nor lifestyles that ensure that my self-expression is both a function of me and yet a standard of greatness. With no formula available, my life has become a series of permutations and combinations and my actions perpetrators of trials and errors. 

This lends justification to my iridescent narcissism perhaps, to the extent that I will justify all forms I take because I am convinced that rationality lends substance to my beliefs. It is in this thunderstorm of calm atmosphere that I watch myself sleeping. I would be a great sight to behold to myself, were I not wrought with infractions that vitiate my existence.

"Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody."