“…The legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus…When Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
‘Why do you weep?’ the goddesses asked.
‘I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.
‘Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,’ they said, ‘for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.’
‘But… was Narcissus beautiful?’ the lake asked.
‘Who better than you to know that?’ the goddesses asked in wonder. ‘After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!’
The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:
‘I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.’…” (Paulo Coelho)
I believe in self amour, in that decent confidence which dwells inside our hearts and hauls us across sinuous paths, regardless of prickly obstacles, indefinite sorrows and unbearable exposures. I cherish the genuine, encompassing indulgence of one’s whole being for itself in need, that dazzling warmth that envelops your icy universe when perpetrated or imposed atrocities mutilate your beliefs and purposes, when consumed and defeated you implore help and think the urged salvation is out there, out of reach, out of you. It never is. A thousand of encouraging voices coming from outside can not subdue the echo of your inner deprecating sound, just as a thousand of condemning outer ones can not collapse the stave of your intimate sustaining melody.
I believe in self amour, in intrinsic narcissism, in personal vanity.
I do not believe in inflated ego, in exacerbated self infatuation whose demands extend outwards in wrongly assumed ideas and actions of pretentious expectancies from and for others. I despise the facile delusion of superior value of self that almost always generates greediness, outer indifference and decadence. A single compromise of integrity can disfigure you irremediably, misdirecting your impulses towards volatile aspirations of achieving artificial masks as to adorn your natural beauty or conceal your human imperfections, of crushing beneath indolent steps others’ fragilities only to acquire dependencies and adorations, of avoiding the raindrops of pure altruism that could thaw your stilted conceit.
I do not believe in inflated ego, in arrogant idolization of self, in supercilious religion.
I certainly know there is a thin line between too much and too little, a balanced grey that at times is hardly discernible, a slippery middle ground, tedious but essential. It is as if inside you pulsates a unicorn trapped inside an hourglass that knows its only breathing place is within the vitreous space, but at times pushes itself against it out of confusion or despair, yearning to explore the unrefined void behind its secure confinement, which would only prove disastrous for itself as for the others lured out there, if conquered. Eventually, a brush of wit manages to touch its mane or a diaphanous breeze of revelation strokes its bruised body, and comprehending the liberty of its truth, it stops. The hourglass is your mirror, the axis of equilibrium; the animate reflection of your self exists only in it, the way your firefly-spirit sparkles only sheltered inside your organic frame, just as a glove perfectly protects the hand in it from disturbances of weathers. Do not shrink in it, but do not thrust it either. Ever freely, express your moodiness only in the distinct layers of its perfect only for you dimensions.
I certainly know we should be the peace for our selves and for them all, never the war.