I hate guru seekers. Have you ever met one of these fucks? I used to be one of these fucks. I just wanted to be told what to do. I was lost. Someone had to give me direction! Hurry!
I had no father to speak of – my uncles and cousins were fools. Most of my teachers were morons or heartbroken dreamers. I learned nothing. I stayed lost.
And now I’m older. Sometimes I think I know less than I did before. I’m trying to accept that. I am. I’m trying to accept that part of the human condition is an innate sense of loss. Or at least we’ve been programmed to believe that a bunch of lies are our own thoughts. I don’t believe half of the shit that my mind believes in. Anyway, heads will be spinning over that thought.
The point is this: I don’t know anything at all.
I don’t want to be anyone’s idol, hero, guru, or anything of the sort. I just want to give people me on paper. I want the world to see me as myself—as the sum of the mistakes and good choices I’ve made. My thesis reiterated: I don’t want to be worshipped at all. I don’t deserve it. I don’t know anything. I still know nothing at all.
I behave this way toward people. I work on it:
Hey, I don’t know. How are you feeling?
They think I’m humble. They’ve never met a humble person before. They don’t trust it. They poke at me. They attack it. Then they decide it’s real. Some of them one day realize it. I am just myself. No pretensions. Just my emotions and my thoughts, that’s all. They admire me for that. They want to learn that from me.
And I’m back on the pedestal.
Thesis developed: I don’t want to be anyone’s idol, hero, guru, or anything of the sort, yeah, yeah, but all of that’s wrong. I’m lying. I’m not humble at all. I have no humility.
What I have is absolute self-loathing. People think my self-hatred is some ultimate humility. They put me on a lonely pedestal: an example of humble—or some other quality they think I have. They leave me there, alone. I hate it.
I don’t feel honored or worshipped or appreciated or strong. I feel alone. I feel abandoned, again, because of who I am. Oh, and the pressure of your expectations: guide me, guide me, show me how I’m wrong.
Stop it! I’m not this strong. I’m dying in my own arms here. I’m curled up on your trophy case in a dehydrated ball. Stop it. Please, just stop it. God damn it. I’m only nine years old.