There is this idea in my head. It’s about me, or rather, a version of me. It is better than the real me in almost every way. It is the best possible form of me, the ideal me, my higher self.
This ideal me is as flawless as my imagination permits him to be. He is kind, patient, creative, unafraid and strong. Most of the time, I am none of these things, even though I want to be. My attempts to be him sometimes take me as far as halfway but I do not measure up.
When making decisions, I endeavour to act as he would. I try to show respect, I try to make the hard decisions without taking the easy way out, I try to love when it is difficult to do so.
My relationship with my higher self is strained. It is not friendly and it is not something I maintain out of love. My higher self serves as a goalpost that I have decided to run towards regardless of the number of times I end up with bruised knees. He is what holds me together.