A loyal reader (and awesome fellatrix) recently wrote, in response to this post:
*This* is why I keep coming back. I love the endless self reflection, the unpacking. Sex is the lens or the journey, its really about your brain, your fascination with *why* you tick the way you do. Or at least thats *my* take on it. Through my own lens.
And, as she often does, she got me to thinking.
There are two ways to respond to this note: first, as praise; but second, as criticism. “Endless self reflection” can get kinda old. Being fascinated with why I tick the way I do is all well and good, up to a point. But at a certain point, when people we know are endlessly fascinated by themselves, it does get old.
And so this is where I came out, after my thinking (am I an unabashed narcissist? am I intolerably navel-gazing?):
In truth, I don’t think that I am particularly interesting. Or rather, I don’t think that I am especially interesting. I think people are interesting, that the sorts of questions and analysis I put to myself, to which I subject myself, is/are interesting, and I like to imagine that I’d be as compelled by another’s path as by my own. In the immortal words of Jerry Garcia (covering Aerosmith), “Life’s a journey, not a destination.” It’s the journey that fascinates me – not my journey.