Narcissistic Illusion

Some reflections on narcissism...

An emaciated soul
Is one that has run for so long on narcissistic illusions
That it can do nothing but vomit up any piece of reality and wholeness
One that resigns and sacrifices any fragile self left for the comfort of illusion
One that sacrifices any life left in place of the controllable, mundane, and ordinary

There is no sorrow, for illusions cannot be grieved
In place is the high tower of narcissism
Where no other soul can get near
Looking down everything is small, the size of this life, the size of this self

Its perfection ends up simply being the case because of its utter minute being
It knows not life, but instead what it means to be so safe as to be nothing
In attempting to hold onto something it has essentially become nothing

And the sheer madness of it all, what is so infuriating
Is its perfection in illusion that provides the appearance of such grandiosity, such supposed wholeness, which could not be farther from the truth
The madness is the irony - a perfection so attained that it has finally attained nothingness


I wrote out those words, and what hit me was the continual reference to perfection, and the paradox that comes out of having something so together that you essentially have nothing. There is something about anomaly and imperfection creating more life and not less. Yet how often in relationships I want to be something else, something not human, hold onto narcissism, and consequently end up living a small, pretentious, and mundane existence. The more I desire to not be human, the closer I get to be nothing at all.

Reminded on Living

I came across this writing the other night, a section of a book on Jim Elliott, a missionary who died and left us with a number of beautifully written journals. The one that always stuck out to me the most I read again last night. I am always moved by his passion. As the veil is lifted here at school and I see so many things that have been hidden, in a strange way I find myself wanting to be my own God. A miserable way to live. Especially when I am reminded of the passion of a heart that is caught up in delight with the real thing. Here's a bit of his passion. What a glorious way to live.

"Because, O God, from Thee comes all, because from Thine own mouth has entered us the power to breathe, from Thee the sea of air in which we swim and the unknown nothingness that stays it over us with unseen bands; because Thou gavest us from the heart of love so tender, mind so wise and hand so strong, Salvation; because Thou art Beginning, God, I worship Thee.









Because Thou art the end of every way, the goal of man; because to Thee shall come of every people respect and praise; their emissaries find Thy throne their destiny; because Ethiopia shall stretch out her hands to Thee, babes sing Thy praise; because Thine altar gives to sparrows shelter, sinners peace, and devils fury; because 'to Thee shall all flesh come,' because Thou art Omega, praise."

Dust

Coming into the local coffee shop, opening up my laptop, usually the first thing I notice is it's covered with dust. It doesn't seem dirty in my place. Something about the lighting, the atmosphere of a new place, provides the right illumination for me to see how dirty it really is.

Experiencing this the other day, right away I related it to my interaction with people. I can be going through the entire day, week, month, doing my best to not be seen. Then, at the right time, that person chooses to bring the right amount of light to step into my world, inevitably naming the things I don't want to name myself.

The person I experience this exposure with the most; my counselor (he does his job well, not always a fun thing...) The image I have is back in elementary school where we'd make the little volcanos erupt. The drop of baking soda into the mixture ignites the reaction. And I feel like I can't step into that office and sit on that couch without there being some inevitable reaction.

It is really more what he doesn't do than what he does. Usually I am doing everything I can to keep from being the one that casts that light, never wanting to create that awkward confrontation. He is there, speaking into what he sees and feels, not hiding, not blaming, just there. So often I feel like I have to be doing so much, but I see more how it's what I let myself not do that is needed - if I want to expose or be exposed - if I want to cast that light. A big if. It cuts, but the cut somehow brings life. And that is a blessed wounding. Blessed are the wounds of a friend.