|Most of us have some delusions about ourselves,|
but some believe the world turns on their existence.
I was talking with someone about a time when I was virtually called a fraud by a young, rapacious journalist who evidently wanted to send me packing in shame because they felt that I wasn't suited for my job. Years later, this person admitted to me that this same journalist had insulted them, in their office, by their agenda-laden questions, which this person dismissed as "bullshit."
If I was as self-possessed as I was when I was younger, this might have hurt, but age has brought me much wisdom. I no longer need to be the center of attention, begging for compliments, and getting depressed when the world didn't seem to be as impressed with me as I was with myself. Goodbye baggage of youth. I rejoice.
This person then told me that they had a theory about who was really behind this. The name that was spoken did not come as a shock to me, rather I felt a bit of pity of what must be an almost unbearable amount of self-loathing. In any case, it's all history.
This brings us to today when I checked my voicemail. If some stranger feels it necessary to whinge on about some point, usually "points" because it is rarely singular, then they have that right.
I also have rights. A right not to be pestered over trivial shit or taken to task for what is a perceived shortcoming on my part. I also have the right not to accept compliments and not to take them seriously either. Of all this chatter, what is real? Almost nothing.
Only the work is real, only our presence is real, only the ones we love and who love us are real. All else is noise and folly. I just don't believe all the posing anymore.
It's called delete and I make use of it constantly.