I’ve been in a mind to metric my worth. Within the self, and what might be held without.

Though, I’ve been told, on occasion regarding the latter. Emotionally driven, at times. And indeed, the former echoes out as well, depending on the state of me that supersedes the rest depending on neural balance along with external circumstance. The mutters to myself can hold a wealth of varieties.

I suppose measurements can be made in accordance with the physical realties. My status and possessions. The relationships maintained, lost and/or otherwise stationed. And the wellness and being of my carbon based and decaying vessel, with all the ebbs and flows I’ve grown to associate with the flesh.

Yet, that seems to be short of satisfying. Though searching for such condition may be the very flawed origin of all these existential woes. Still, whether specifically determined or not, we among the general sentient seem to all agree upon the existence of a more meta metric of worth, beyond the senses of observation and metered recollection. Things of the spirit and soul that have essentially only been conceived through the creative, or other sorts of intimate. A space where I can both proclaim excellence and incompetence, depending on the age and instance. Some failures so fresh that little has been able to coagulate. Other examples itching with the air of the triumphant. All mixed within the lingering despondence of the ever lurking ‘why bothers’.

I’ve had those who care for me grow towards despising. Those have shaped in varying levels of influence, depending on when in the personal timeline. And the inverse, in terms of participant and emotional outcome, is no stranger to my sentience as well. It has been claimed I should be hated, whether genuine or not. Some of the complaints stemmed no further than the echo of my own head. Blending masochism and narcissism might seem a monumental task for some. Yet, I seem capable with regular ease. At the very least of the surface that my consciousness keeps for me.

Certainly, to be loathed is not what I aim for as intention. I’m keen enough on my own ambition to know at my most base, I hope to be adored. Or left alone. It is that in between that I constantly find irregular states of difficulty. And, it is that in between where most live, and where most of life occurs. To beg what is wrong can appear as the quintessence of trite, yet I groan on and on, all the same. And whether the fault resides in the hardware or the software, gets us no closer to the resolution sought.

A lot of words to wonder about whether I think of myself as a failure. Or if everyone else does. And there is no shortage of futility into such inquiries. As far as I can tell, this timeline has more to go. Which, of course, means that the status of success is still in flux. And not all my sins be linked to some eternal damnation. There is space to work. To grow. Or, pessimistically, wither. And though certainly capable, I intend with no slight effort, to work towards the brighter ends in terms of outlooks. Still, fool though I may be- I am not fool enough to dream immunity of negative innate identity. It could all fall well off the rails, at any moment. And by just the same stroke of destiny, all might be fine. And within that ego of mine, I still believe that action and intention, be it of others and especially of my own- holds sufficient energy to craft the path this way, or that way.

Arrogant, as ever. While still regularly not believing in myself. Likely to jump through those various hoops at least a few more times today. To say nothing of what the unconscious mind might have to say in all that. Creative, and monstrously inceptive- the thoughts I think when not thinking.

And then, of course, there is whatever might be tomorrow.