Liking myself.

What more do I need?

How tender and beautiful I am!

How lucky to be myself!

But listen, who am I?

I am not this tenderness, for it passes.

I am not this beauty, for it is relative.

I am not this luck, for sometimes it eludes me.

I am not even this liking of myself, for I am treasuring a perishable personality.

What is it to love myself, then, if I don't know who I am?

To love! How different it is from merely liking!

Loving, yes, that I am, for loving is eternal.

But listen, what is loving?