I once heard that love is simple. You care for someone, you’re willing to sacrifice life for them, and if they love you in return you’ll never have to. I am learning to love myself and in the process I am going insane.

They don’t teach you to love yourself when you’re young. Everything else comes first: family, school, society, honor, etc. All of these things are important, but if you don’t have a solid foundation in “you” then havoc will wreak later.

It didn’t hit me until my late teenage years that I had been playing Jinga on a weak foundation my entire life. Someone else had to tell me to search. I didn’t know myself, my voice, my desires, or truly my strength. From the moment I met myself, I’ve walked alone; it’s been necessary to hear myself think. Outside energy can be a cloud around your inner thoughts. When you walk alone, you hear yourself on high volume speakers.

I am a loner but simultaneously, there are rare moment of bliss when certain individuals join me on my journey. Many can only bare to stick around for short periods of time since it is difficult to walk blindfolded. I don’t know where my road is taking me therefore I can’t tell you. Either you trust the path or you don’t. Most don’t. They turn around in the face of uncertainty and try a new path that seems more lit. I am walking on a road that’s mostly pitch black with few lights on the side. The darkness doesn’t matter to me though, so long as I can hear my voice. I have questions that need to be answered and can’t risk my core going mute. The entire experience of loving yourself is a process.

Who am I? What do I want to accomplish? How do I want to live? What means the most to me? What is essential? What can I purge or throw away?

There is no deadline to the answers. They come when they’re supposed to and can change in a moment’s instant. The key is living in the moment; there is no need to see the entire path when you have an internal guide. I live on my own voice and its rather nice I might add.

Am I sounding crazy yet? Yes? Good.

While we’re on that question, I’ve been thinking about insanity. I’m reading Paulo Coelho’s novel, Veronika Decides to Die. The story is layered with several life lessons, but the main crux lays in the definition of “insanity.” The novel takes place in a mental hospital after the protagonist attempts to kill herself unsuccessfully in her home. Sounds depressing, but really it’s not. Through the plot, Coelho asks who is “insane?” When is it acceptable to act out of the ordinary? Why is it okay to live a routine life without breaking any ritual? Who sets these definitions for what is normal behavior? Why are the insane the only ones who break the rules? If the mental hospital is the only space where one can do or say whatever without being judged, imagine the type of creativity and self-exploration that breeds there.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Paulo Coelho, his parent’s locked him up in a mental asylum for wanting to be a writer. Can you blame them? I mean who signs up to take the risk of being poor the rest of their lives in exchange for penning beautiful words? People who believe writing is essential to their being gladly take the risk. I am insane, I gladly accept it. Writing remains a first priority in my life because it is essential to loving me. There is no “sensible” reason why and I don’t feel the need to create one. It simply is what it is. The more that I accept it, the closer I am to liberation.

Self-love is essential. My voice is essential. Doing “good” is essential. For that, my brain is unlike the majority. I am indeed insane and hope to continue living this way for many, many years.

My legacy is self-love. Kiss your reflection the next time you look in the mirror. It may remind you why you’re on this earth in the first place.