here comes death tapping at my windowpane

If only I had had the time to realize that being good is not about whether or not other people like you, but about whether or not you like yourself, I might have left something more impressive behind.


But I never had enough time to think about that sort of thing. I was too busy being too good, or so I think now.





And so I’m sad now, thinking about all the things I could have done differently, had I only known that being good is not about whether or not other people like you, but about whether or not you like yourself.


If I had had only a little more time, I might have remembered that being good is not about whether or not other people like you, but about whether or not you like yourself.


I might have left something more impressive behind.




I might have remembered that being good is not about whether or not other people like you, but about whether or not you like yourself.

Instead, I spent most of my life being too good, and so I’m sad now, thinking about all the things I could have done differently.


If only I had had more time to think about that sort of thing.


I never really seemed to have enough time -- not in college or high school, certainly, and even through my childhood it seemed as if there were always too many demands on me for me ever to sit still long enough to consider what it would mean if you liked yourself instead of worrying so much what other people thought when they saw you doing something they might interpret as unlikable.





If only I had had more time to think about that sort of thing.


In high school, I was too busy worrying about what other people thought when they saw me doing something they might interpret as unlikable to notice how much time it took up in my head. How much energy had I wasted! Trying not to do anything people might misinterpret, like going out for the basketball team, for example. If only I had realized sooner that being good is not about whether or not other people like you but rather instead about whether or not you like yourself, and so if other people don’t like you then too bad because what does their opinion really matter when compared against your own? -- if only I’d realized this sooner (I say again), then maybe things would have turned out differently for me than the way they did instead.


Instead of spending most of my life being too good in order to be liked by others who probably deep down inside anyway I didn’t even care all that much one way or another if they liked me because after all who were these faceless strangers on whose opinions my happiness depended supposed to be any judge of who exactly was a likable person anyway except just some stranger with an opinion on things he didn’t know enough yet even fully enough at this point himself ever really truly having known?

If only there were more time: then maybe nothing would happen quite the same as before; and so now here comes death tapping at my windowpane asking why we never spent enough time talking about how stupid it is. How stupid it is always running around trying hard though mostly without success, just always chasing after others wanting them constantly over your shoulder judging whether from their perspective you look either likable enough or impressive beyond compare.

If only there were more time, I say again now -- tapping at my windowpane trying, again, unsuccessfully to talk.

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