Struggles

Every day is some kind of struggle. It's just difficult to know what kind of struggle you're in for when you wake up. It might be for time. It might be for attention. It might be for survival. It often seems like it's against myself. There is a part of me somewhere that doesn't care about what kind of person I want to be, or who I'm trying to be. This part only cares about itself, about satisfying its own needs. And it seems like the more I try to squelch it, the more obstinate it becomes. Perhaps this is one of those things Freud was talking about. This thing that I try to bury so far down that it will never see the light of day is the most difficult struggle I will ever face in a day. Because it is ugly. Because it is relentless. Because it functions without reason, or logic, or regard to anything else. And the struggle comes because this thing really only wants me to be satisfied. It wants me to get laid. It wants me to be greedy when dinner is served. It wants me to hurt those who hurt me. But it is dangerous. When it gets a little piece of what it wants, it doesn't subside. It only grows. It is the emotional cancer that shades the day. And it has no name. You could call it greed, or jealousy, or anger, or hate, or gluttony, or any number of emotions that seem to be programmed in us "for our own good". But in the end, these are not the things I want to be. These things are only satisfying in the short term. They reek of consequences that I'd rather not suffer. So this is the struggle. Every day I have to hold my tongue, or control an appetite, or take the proverbial high road, I have to hope that the struggle is worth it. That the payoff for not being an asshole is bigger and better than giving in. And today it was. Someone was happy to see me today; really honestly happy. Not because I didn't give in today, but because I'm doing a good job of being who I want to be. Because I'm trying. And because he is too.