I always want more.
More than that, I want to want more. I want to be insatiable. I want to be lean from hunger, let the weight of my desire hang heavy inside of me. I want it to drive me.
Can we be too comfortable in our excellence?
I don’t want to be comfortable. I don’t want to be at ease. Periods of rest become months of sleep, a drowsy lethargy towards life. Being good isn’t enough. Because you will disappoint yourself. No matter how good you are, those moments when you are not wondering if you really are as good as you think, you are thinking that you should be doing better than you are.
It always comes to this. Words and words to hone my knife, to give courage enough to cut away my pretensions. I take a savage glee in slicing deep, slipping the knife under my skin and peeling it back to see the marrow of who I am. I move fast, least I pause to consider the possibility that there is nothing under the surface, that I will cut myself into nothing.
But that won’t happen. There are already words to replace the ones I have cut away, already new, fresher ideas to settle over myself.
I want recognition, I want validation, but I don’t want to ask for it least it sour the taste. I want it heaped upon me, the riches I so obviously deserve.
That laughter in my eyes you always see? It is because I find myself endlessly amusing. Because it is hard for me to take myself seriously. Because I know the secret to life, and it is that everything is fucking ridiculous.
I want to be unique. But only to myself. I want to privately know how special I am, because if I leave it unsaid, it can remain true even in the face of evidence to the contrary.
***
Do you see who I am to be, yet?
Honesty is not simply saying what you think, it is questioning why you think it.
My knives are sharp, children. Don’t come too close.