In building your character, will you ruin yourself?

He was in high spirits last night, and devoted a lot of time to stroking my ego. Just what I need, but it wasn't really like that.  It's not a topic I'm completely comfortable with going on about 'my' career and how I should pursue it further...but seriously, like I am clueless about what I'm gonna do? Ahaha... Anyways, I was more interested when he talked about my art pieces and I've never seriously thought of my art as "mine." What is it about this talk that makes me want to shake something off my body?

I haven't even been painting much, yet he was so enthusiastic. And she, how she's always been about my paintings, which is... well, my compositions aren't especially enthralling, anymore i said to him. I take these words with a grain of salt. I know that I don't compare to many other people, in this realm, and I don't like to entertain thoughts like that. Neither do I feel proud of something that was given to me; it's got nothing to do with strength of character, it's a sloppy self-indulgent display of something neither virtuous or not. Not to say I'm innocent of things like that.

The truth is I can't take a compliment, if it's not based upon something shallow or untrue. If I'm actually competent at something that matters, being faced with that reality is a threat. I don't want to hear people tell me I'm good, because I don't want to think that I'm good, because I'm not, and even if I were, it would be wrong to think so, because if I thought so, I'd care, and it would be wrong to care. Confidence is combustible yet many of us can't live without it either. Sometimes this thing that once engulfed my life comes in handy. When I lay my hands on something, when someone needs help. At times if there is something powerful enough to try to describe, in analog. In my dreams, every night. In my mind, at the music. When I think, I see the structure and color of the thought. Art is internal; it's the dreamt reflection of science. It's still there, but it's not shared. It's a distortion; sunlight shines through a prism, and it becomes a visible range of frequencies. If that light is again distorted, through another mind, then another, its not recognizable as sunlight. I don't know. It's probably a selfish thing. I don't know, maybe it's something to be ashamed of. Yet I enjoy looking at what other people make with their lives.

If I make something, it's got to be offhand, with little thought invested. Sketch, rhyme, tweak, close the book, put it on a shelf. Use small words, say trivial things, kick it under the carpet. Living is business, and you've got to make yourself approachable, or at least, conceivable. "Nice to see you, I'm Jenny, hi, I'm me. Um, come in. You may not see, yet, but I can name 3,000 reasons that I'm just like you.  I'm very adjusted. I keep my gaze set on the most basic alphabets and binary thought patterns. I want to help you make things simple. Simplicity is endearing, and trivial complexity is non-threatening. So look, flashy people, I'm always honest with you, I extend as far as your conception of me." 

It's a slight-of-hand, but when I buy the time, I've forgotten what for. Today, I look through the neglected boxes in my closet, and I see little art projects, satirical poems I wrote when I was 17, tributes to ideas and loves, stories, paintings, songs, silly comics drawn between him and I, business ventures, designs... all... yeah, they're good. And I'm puzzled, yet impressed, that I had the motivation to create these. It's almost as if I'm my own child; I just can't touch that person. I've always underestimate myself, assuming, in hindsight, that every thing I've done has been a product of the culture, when research shows that it really wasn't. 

So they say, "This is what you were born to do.  This is why you were put on this earth."  What?  No. I calmly panic... noooo...what am I doing here, at all? I'm stuck; the issue being that I don't respect what I value? There's this thing I wrote when I was 18. I have forgotten many things that had happened in the past however I've got a photographic file cabinet for all my poems, in my mind. Fool that I was, I thought I wrote it for someone else:

Is fear inside you or do you fear the inside?
Do you love what you want or are you driven by pride?
Would you spit out your soul and trade it for fate?
If pleasure was cheap and the truth didn't rate?
Are you searching for safety or do you want wealth?
In building your character will you ruin yourself?...
Is it nothing but pain that your anger's made of?
Is it want that you hate or hate that you love?...

There you go, no consolation, and for god's sake, no encouragement please.