But evil isn’t bad, the way that selfish isn’t evil.
You see me and you call me “good” with reassurance of my nature—you approve of it. You think I live to help others. But living to help others, however much it may be easily approved of, doesn’t help me. It gives me warmth once in a while, yes, but let’s say I have a chance to take care of myself, and a chance to take care of you.
If I take care of you, then I am good. If I take care of myself, then I am bad. They’re black and white filters on your vision that make you think that you can think. If you never let yourself see grey, you won’t have reason to suspect it ever existed. In this way you confine yourself to kennels that don’t fit you, and you swear to me it’s good. It makes you pure. Things are either good or they’re bad and there’s no confusion. Of course there’s no confusion. How can you be confused about it when you refuse to acknowledge it whatsoever?
Every time I choose to take care of you over myself, I am slowly killing myself. And you reassure me that helping others is what’s keeping me alive, even though I’m so sure it’s what’s poisoning me from inside out. I have lived too long helping others. I have loved too much and now I am suffering from all this love and help and kindness.
I choose to take care of myself
And you see this as selfishness, as the point where I took a wrong turn, but I see it as it is; soft monotones of colour brushing up my sleeves. Because selfish isn’t bad any more than helping others; what I’m trying to say is neither of them are good or bad. Selfish isn’t me deciding to bury you into the earth upon which you stamp your feet, it’s me choosing not to let myself sink into the earth upon which I am currently fixated. Selfish is a type of love, but it’s not a love that you receive, and so it falls into the bad pile.
And this makes me wonder. I love myself, and I choose myself, and I am selfish, but how am I bad? I am the one who’s keeping me alive, only me, because God put me into my skin for a reason. He in no way gave you the reigns over whether I live or die. You, however, don’t love my love the way I am so in love with my own love. You criticize me for my selfishness? For trying to protect my clay soul from this chisel world? Wouldn’t you then fall into the bad pile as well? You expect me to live only to serve into your soul, well, wouldn’t that make you evil?
And I tried to say all this to you, I truly did. I know you love me, but your love can never measure up to the kind of love I give myself. That comes from only me. Me, me. I’m the only one who knows the 2am whispers that seep down my pillows. I’m the only one who can count the stolen glances at stolen people. I’m the only one who keeps track of rejected meals that are currently making brown paper seas in my fridge, that’s all me. And then there’s the same to be said about you. I cannot hope to love you enough to know the tremor in your lip when you hear those words. I can never love you enough to be able to understand the purpose resigned to the change that sits at the bottom of your purse. Because only you can love yourself that way. I cannot ever do so.
You may continue to call me selfish as if it’s a bad thing. I will continue to describe it just as it is; the only thing keeping me alive.