Arrogance

arrogant

Of course I’m arrogant.

How is it that I could sit at a keyboard every day, sometimes twice, and post my thoughts and ideas and insights and interactions and truths… how is it that I could post all of those things for public consumption and not be arrogant?

But I am a careful arrogant. I’m selective in what I share. I discuss my relationships, but never reveal truths about others that I don’t have permission to share. And I share only the parts of myself that I want to share.

I, like anyone, am extremely complex.

I lean toward finding strengths in others, yet still poke fun at the world around me, this world with all its ridiculousness and sadness.

I am prone to search my soul and character for truth, change, enlightenment, and fulfillment.

I find joy in the simplest of things, and rage in the most complex, and I’m every color in between them.

I am, at my essence, a quester. (Wait, that isn’t a word. But it should be. One who quests.)

Truth told, you are arrogant, too. You who read my words and think you know me. You know only what I share, and then you know only your experience with what you read. There is an arrogance to that as well.

And you are just as complex as I. You are strong in ways I’m weak, and weak in ways I’m strong. Perhaps you can’t see a soul through a painful trauma (my day job) like I can, but I bet you can assemble a piece of IKEA furniture much more efficiently.

I like being arrogant in these senses. I like having confidence in the things I am good at. I like questing. I like sharing with you the parts I want to share. I feel better when I write, like I have done a bunch of sit-ups or finished a complex recipe or vomited, each their own form of accomplishment and cartharsis.

And I wouldn’t choose to be anything but arrogant. When my son comes up to me with a little stick figure drawing, I hug him tight and tell him its the best thing I’ve ever seen. Because it is. I don’t compare his art to that of others. I don’t criticize and condemn or call him arrogant for having shown it to me. I pat his back and tell him he is amazing. Because he is.

And so am I.

And so are you.

I’m becoming, in my own way, a writer. An artist. On my own small-town terms. And I’m proud of that. I’m more fulfilled by it.

And even this entry, perhaps, will be read by only a few people, including you. You may skim over it casually, looking for interest points. You may devour every word. You may cry, or seethe, or roll your eyes.

Yet even if no one reads it, these were words I needed to share at this time.

And if I were to die tomorrow, this would have been the last thing I ever posted, and everyone would search and scour these words for truths and insights I freely offered. It’s a legacy, every day, to write like this.

And noticing that? That’s arrogant, too.

 

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