I see. If I said you are living your life wrong, I would have to say my father lived his life wrong. And I can't do that. So allow me to give my explanation by telling his story.
My father loved me. I couldn't love him back. I can't love anyone, to be honest. I don't have such feelings inside of me.
He never showed me anger or disappointment. He only ever showed me affection and care. He considered my poor personality a fault of his own. Like if he had been a better father, I could have learned to love someone.
I was the twenty, no, probably even less than that. He sacrificed and sacrificed for me. Whenever I would ask him to stop or say I was sorry, he would tell me it was all right; he didn't hurt; that he didn't mind so long it was for me.
My father was kind but not good. He allowed me to receive wound after wound, without even noticing they were there. That no matter what I said, he would only try harder.
I never did come to love him. It was always like watching someone run into a brick wall, breaking bones and blood splattering everywhere. Even if you hated the person, you would want them to stop. So there was never any love. There was never any hate. Just a tired wish of wanting him to stop. Yet he continued.
I hope the story helps you understand why I want people to live selfishly. I can't, unfortunately, because I am not so responsible an adult that I take my own advice.
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If I said you are living your life wrong, I would have to say my father lived his life wrong.
And I can't do that.
So allow me to give my explanation by telling his story.
My father loved me.
I couldn't love him back.
I can't love anyone, to be honest.
I don't have such feelings inside of me.
He never showed me anger or disappointment.
He only ever showed me affection and care.
He considered my poor personality a fault of his own. Like if he had been a better father, I could have learned to love someone.
I was the twenty, no, probably even less than that.
He sacrificed and sacrificed for me. Whenever I would ask him to stop or say I was sorry, he would tell me it was all right; he didn't hurt; that he didn't mind so long it was for me.
My father was kind but not good.
He allowed me to receive wound after wound, without even noticing they were there. That no matter what I said, he would only try harder.
I never did come to love him.
It was always like watching someone run into a brick wall, breaking bones and blood splattering everywhere.
Even if you hated the person, you would want them to stop.
So there was never any love.
There was never any hate.
Just a tired wish of wanting him to stop.
Yet he continued.
I hope the story helps you understand why I want people to live selfishly.
I can't, unfortunately, because I am not so responsible an adult that I take my own advice.