Yeesh!

Time alone, at the computer, in the dark basement.
Am I weaving myself into my ego?
Or am I breaking free?
The danger of the writing life, is the danger of being me, all day, to myself.
Charity looks small from up here.
Listening?
Why listen, when you can talk!?
To be in the presence of someone else, not to elbow their feelings aside, how does one live this way?
To know someone, not as an idea, or as a character in my life story, is to be in pain.
To do a dish,
To ask for forgiveness,
To invite someone to church:
I do not want to do these things,
Unless I have to.
And I do not fancy that I write well enough to excuse myself from these things.
Who am I doing good for down here?
Perhaps this is not the point.
I should start from trying to avoid evil, before I try to do good.
Who am I hurting down here, besides myself?
I want to say that all of man suffers, when one man fails to love.
But this is a dodge.
An attempt to turn poetic, or theological, when the question is quite simple.
There is someone, with a name, and a story of their own, and I am hurting them.