People with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to the other, more instantly negotiable virtues…. character, the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life, is the source from which self-respect springs.
Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
Most of our peers prefer the velvet pillow of excuses. They dissolve their failures in a solution of fashionable psychology, trading the heavy, gold coin of personal accountability for the flimsy paper currency of instant validation. They are chameleon-souls, blushing prettily to match the drapery of the hour.
Yet, true self-respect remains a strictly non-negotiable commodity. It is forged in the silent, windowless basement of the ego, where one looks into the mirror, bypassing any flattering mask. It is the terrifying, exhilarating realization that the authorship of one’s own tragedy, or comedy, belongs solely to the hand holding the pen.
When the music of the world’s applause fades, as it always must, into the gray static of twilight, only this spinal column of character remains upright. It is a quiet pride, a spine made of a finer alloy, stiffened by the realization that we are our own final judges, our own executioners, and our own elusive gods.
Tell me, dear reader: in your own quietest, unobserved moments, when the social theater darkens and the applause dies away, do you find yourself standing upon the firm, granite rock of your own authorship, or are you merely adrift on a raft of beautifully negotiated concessions?
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
janainaart
jacobvanloon
