“… the selfishness of the perfectionist (workaholic) is much more subtle. While he is out in society saving humanity at a work pace of eighty to a hundred hours a week, he is selfishly ignoring his wife and children. He is burying his emotions and working like a computerized robot. He helps mankind partially out of love and compassion, but mostly as an unconscious compensation for his insecurity, and as a means of fulfilling both his strong need for society’s approval and his driving urge to be perfect. He is self-critical and deep within himself feels inferior. He feels like a nobody, and spends the bulk of his life working at a frantic pace to prove to himself that he is really not (as he suspects deep within) a nobody. In his own eyes, and in the eyes of society, he is the epitome of human dedication. … He becomes angry when his wife and children place demands on him. He can’t understand how they could have the nerve to call such an unselfish, dedicated servant a selfish husband and father. … In reality, his wife and children are correct, and they are suffering severely because of his subtle selfishness.” -Minirth and Meier
4 years ago
If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say ...
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