Think unto others…

When it comes to the question of how many people love, like and loathe this column, I haven’t the faintest notion. But what I am certain of is that the vast majority couldn’t care less about it – a statement of fact which I’d have to be a pathological narcissist to begrudge.

And according to my psychiatrist, despite displaying a number of narcissistic traits, I don’t actually meet the clinical definition for that particular personality disorder, so I guess I’m just going to have to accept that some people find other things more important than reading my weekly works of genius. Pffft.

I am, of course, pulling your figurative leg. I am completely content that this column is enjoyed only by hundreds of thousands, rather than the millions upon millions who would choose to delight in it, if only they knew.

Okay, that’s enough of that. There will be no more gratuitous limb-yanking for the rest of this column. I promise.

The reason I started off this week’s column on such an egotistical footing relates to a realisation that I recently had – or possibly re-had, it’s always hard to tell for certain whether you’re realising or remembering.

Anyway, whether I discovered something new or rediscovered something once known but forgoetten, the wisdom in it reverberated through my being like a bad bang to one’s big toe.

So, I suppose, I might as well tell ye about it.

I was reading over last week’s column, an act I once heard described as psychological incest, when I began to get very bored.

“Aww Jesus,” I squirmed. “It’s not good when you’re boring yourself. This is way too long.”

As I read on, that feeling of tedium was overpowered by a self-critical cocktail of agitation, embarrassment, doubt and annoyance.

Before I knew it, I was sitting there looking at the page, brooding, wondering if other people were as scundered by it as I was.

Then the crisis was compounded when the following thought occurred to me: ‘They probably think that you think this is the bee’s knees’.

“Aww Jesus, it’s bad enough that it’d put an insomniac to sleep, but it’s worse that their last waking thought would be something like, ‘I bet this gaunch thinks this is mighty,” continued my unraveling ego.

Then I questioned whether it was correct of me to assume that readers do, in fact, imagine that I am satisfied with every word I write.

“Well, do you ever listen to a new tune and account for the fact the artist might not be completely pleased with it?

“Do you hell. You imagine they probably bop along to it every time they get in the car. So why would anybody reading your column think any different?”

I had myself painted into a corner. It’s amazing how lethally logical you become when your agenda seems to be one set against yourself.

Taking a minute, I tried to manoeuvre my way back towards a less muddled, neurotic state of mind.

I began by asking the age old question that every man who has ever found himself in a pickle they can’t quite talk their way out of has asked: ‘Sure who cares?’

In doing so, I immediately took one step back towards sanity.

“The only person who cares is me. And why do I care? You put something out there, you judge it, others judge it, and that’s that.

“Nothing actually happens. Nothing is lost nor gained – at least nothing material, anyway.”

Another step towards reason. Then, in a flash, the road to equanimity opened up before me.

“Actually, all you’ve realised here is that you should offer other people the same thing that you are now seeking yourself; namely, the presumption that you do not think every word you’ve ever written is perfect..”

And therein lies the wisdom: It is not wrong to judge people. But it is wrong to think that they are not already judging themselves.