theblackdostoyevsky

I-I-I-I, every sentence starting with I. I’m sick of I. I don’t want to start another sentence with I ever again. You do it. We shouldn’t talk about I self so much. But I is all I am. Unless I’m more than me, more than a person. Perhaps I’m an idea. But if so, I’m only an idea to myself. Am I an idea to you, too? I don’t think I’m important enough to you to occur, like ideas do. With you, I show up. I’m a part of your idea of yourself, but I’m not an idea to you. I’m an extension of your idea of you.

So maybe, yes, I’m an idea to you, too.

I am you trying to figure out where I fit in your idea of you.

Often, very often, actually, I meet people. Some I want to meet; most I don’t. Especially not the first time. And the more times I meet you, the less I look forward to meeting you the next time. I’m not keen on making myself amenable to your ideas of me. I’d rather remain a mystery. But I talk too much for that; my ego is too eager. But I’m also like what I wish racists would be: honest. What you see and hear is what you get from me, and I quietly hope that you’ll disqualify yourself from being a part of my idea from afar. But now and again my attempts at being purposely repulsive creates enough intrigue to draw you in, and even then, I know for sure that I am only an idea to you. I am like an asymmetrically ornate installation at an art exhibit. I am beautiful to behold, to take in, to interact with, but like Honolulu, too beautiful to make home. Bought, I’d dominate every room and become a gaudy, incongruent fixture in every room. I’d unilaterally dictate all decorous possibilities. That’s how we become numb to ideas. Nobody’s buying the Mona Lisa to hang in their drawing room, even if it were for sale, or Michelangelo’s David as a conversation piece in the living room with the plastic on all the furniture. You’d take me for granted and begin to resent my beauty. You’ll have to lie about your secret desires to destroy me and dance on my ashes and rubble. So, in the end, you decide that, as an idea, I’m far too rich, too decadent, a flavor for you. I make your jaws clench. So, you push the plate away, and the server clears the table. Reality TV is easier to digest. Check please.

I don’t consider that rejection. That happens to me all the time, and I’m never offended by it. Rejection hurts me, but rejection requires some act of personal malice. But, to push the plate away is to say, “Alright, I’ve had enough.” That’s surrender. I’m okay with surrender. Hell, I push my plate away from myself pretty often, and I’m me. But I won’t quit me, like you won’t quit you, even though you’re sick of yourself, too.

Surrender is giving up. But it’s not giving up like quitting; it’s giving up like yielding. It’s allowing rest. Like Charles Barkley has done with his career. He’s been so abrasive and so offensive, so decadent, for so long, everyone, at some point, has tried him, enjoyed a few bites, and, eventually, pushed the plate away. Now, his plate just sits there, partially eaten, many fork tines in his ample flesh, but he can just set and rest. That’s where I’m trying to get. That’s icon status to me. Not that I want to be rich or famous, but I want to stop needing to pretend like I want a part in your idea of yourself. And I want to stop you from thinking that you want me to be a part of your idea of yourself.

And I want to stop needing you to want to be a part of my idea of myself. Because, truth is, I kinda already know that I don’t want you to be a part of my idea of myself. At least, not long term. I knew that I was eventually going to push the plate away when I first met you. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with knowing that. I’ll have a few bites of anybody, but that’s all I want. Problem is, you think you’re delicious, and you think I should want more bites. But I don’t. So, I’m keeping the plate close for your sake, to protect your feelings. I take smaller bites. I wait longer in between them. I let you feel me creating distance, so that when I rest my nailbeds on the edge of your dish and extend my fingers, and you slide away across the tabletop, you won’t be as offended. You saw it coming. See, I was never under the impression that I was supposed to get to the bottom of you. I knew you were bottomless when you were delivered. I’m not that hungry; I’m not that thirsty. And like I said, I appreciate mystery. I don’t want too much, anymore. I’m an ex-addict; I’m past overindulgence. I don’t scarf. I don’t bite and swallow; I chew. I don’t need too much; I don’t want to get too close. People are far more interesting and far less infuriating from an arm’s length. And so am I.

Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, though, because I do. It means that it’ll be harder for me to exhaust that love. I can get up from the table, come back later and again, and take another bite. You’ll still taste fresh but satisfyingly familiar, though not quite nostalgic. Nostalgia is a lie; the past with the suffering cooked off. I’m not God. I can’t know everything and still be love. If I knew everything, I’d want to torch you in my fury, and you know that, because you’d feel the same way about me.

Why do we have so much trouble admitting it, then? Because of our ideas of ourselves, I imagine. We think we’re patient, when we’re not. We think we’re kind, when we’re not. We think we’re hard-working, when we’re not. We think we’re talented, when we’re not. Our ideas of ourselves are only a reflection of the tables we’ve consented to sit at. If all I order are chicken strips and fries, by comparison, I’m a souffle. But if I meet a souffle, perhaps my idea of myself would compare more accurately with a frank. So, there are some plates I’ll never taste from, so as not to ruin my palette. That’s why poor folks don’t eat at nice restaurants; it ruins the palette. I can’t eat an $80 steak and go back to a peanut butter and jelly without wanting to kill myself. And how bored with food are the ones who daily feast on $80 steaks? What’s there to look forward to? $160 steaks? That’s all profit margin for the seller, at that point. Beef is beef. Salt is salt. Medium is medium. In economics, they’re called “diminishing marginal returns.”

And that’s relationships, diminishing marginal returns. But in this neurotic, metropolitan, stacked on top of each other, a thousand ships passing in the night every half hour, “Oh, excuse me,” “Pardon me,” “I’m sorry for being alive and walking around,” world we’ve got, we’ve forgotten that engagement doesn’t have to be obligatory. I don’t have to say good morning, but if I don’t your feelings will be hurt. I don’t have to attend your retirement party, but if I don’t your feelings will be hurt. I don’t need to RSVP for your wedding, but if I don’t your feelings will be hurt. Because I, to you, am nothing more than an opportunity to validate your idea of your own loveliness. For you, that is the only reason I exist. And that is why we have a world absolutely overflowing with manipulation. Teachers are manipulating students to engage with material they aren’t interested in. Employers are manipulating employees to engage with projects and initiatives they didn’t originate. Parents are manipulating children to engage with the future from their history, which no longer exists. Wives are manipulating their husbands into engaging with emotions in matters they don’t care about. Husbands are manipulating their wives into engaging with logical solutions that they don’t value. Politicians are manipulating the public to engage with policies that don’t serve their best interests. Religion is manipulating its adherents to engage with rituals to feel better about their wretchedness. The New Age is manipulating empaths to engage with satan to satisfy their need to be spiritual. Television programming is manipulating subscribers to engage with their own self-conscious inadequacy. The only one not manipulating is Jesus, who tells everybody, straight up, either you engage with me or you go to hell. But it’s your life, and it’s your choice. So, choose.

We don’t know what to do with that kind of freedom. We’re too used to being target marketed to death. We’re too used to being the center of someone’s desire and attention. We’re too used to being sold on an idea. We’re too used to waiting for someone to care enough to want to win us. We’re too used to our own narcissism. So used to it, in fact, that when a sovereign approaches, self-sufficient, whole, holy, ever-abiding, before and behind, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all good, we’re offended that He doesn’t need us to complete His idea of Himself. In fact, we’re most offended that He would dare assert that we’ll never have a true and complete idea of ourselves without Him.

“Little children, keep yourself from idols.” But how do you keep yourself from yourself? You push the plate away. Then eat from His plate, instead.

“I am the living bread which came down from heaven: if any man eat of this bread, he shall live forever: and the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world,” (John 6:51).

May you find Him, now.