Listening to Owl City's Ocean Eyes on the way home tonight, (it's actually a decent record, once you get past the sugar coated Ben Gibbard-and-rainbows surface) I reflected on the idea of a self-concept. And self-worth. And, basically, the meaning of life. I'll try and keep the ranting to a mimimum and play hardball here.
Life is all about you. This has been one of the biggest realizations of my entire life, and it had never crossed my mind until my last week living in Paris. What freedom! Life is about you, so you can be hedonistic and selfish and self-loving (and hating) all you want, because as long as it is what you want, as long as it makes you happy, it is within the progressive channel of your life and is bringing you closer to the supreme You.
And it sounds so simple, but it isn't, because every other one-track-life stoner/trust-fund kid/sorority girl/whiny blogger can say the same thing: "It's all about me." But if they aren't progressing, if the selfishness is not validated by some sort of pain (and therefore growth) or revelation or new experience, it isn't really about you, because it doesn't benefit you. It may even hurt you.
So, basically know this: the most well-lived lives of all time were spent in search of the self. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Madonna, Ralph Lauren...(also known as "the first people Dustin could think of") all put themselves first. There are new examples. Lady Gaga, Donatella Versace, Scott Schuman...
When I start referencing Donatella Versace, it's time for Dustin to go to bed. So much for hardball.