Being good

I think I’m getting to a kind of understanding with the you I have in my mind. There are lilacs on a wall and I can’t tell if they are real or netted fabric or if anything is real or just netted fabric and I stroke them a few times and try to feel the grids that fasten the earth together. I am my most me when I am curious in this way and alone, and I wonder if what you needed was just the ability to see something like lilacs on a wall and to be interested in it enough for the roar of the rest of the world to quiet down. But you are too permeable, the world and its desires passing through you, you aren’t a consumer, just consumed and it ravaged you to not have a center. Your changing shapes directed themselves at me but I can only see the netted grids of lilacs and that can help me, but it won’t help you the way you wanted, and anyway, you’re just an entitled male who is incapable of seeing how your obsession with being a good person is keeping you the worst, so self-interested in your goal to lack self-interest. We are all pawns for your performance of empathy in which you confuse being good for being better than being yourself.

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