Sharing

"You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."

I give you these words, these quotes and songs and realities I have learned, I have heard. I give you stories of experiences, both mine and those of others. I give you time, sympathy, affection. Gestures of caring. I give you this space in my thoughts. This time and space in my mind, in my conscious actions- this should be giving, should it not?

But at the end of it, I am less. There is little left in me to offer, of worth to you. Am I lessened this way because I gave of myself? I doubt it. The self, the true self, should grow when shared. In the silence at the end of our conversation, shouldn't the self expand in the long exhale? How do I find this self, the one that is replenished by sharing with another?

When I give you these things (quotes/words/ideas), you construct for me a little space, it seems. A reality that is encompassed only by those things we share. And I give, eagerly, to gain that space, that corner of your consciousness that I can stake a claim to. But neither is that my sole reality, nor do I have any permanence in that claim in your mind. But each time you want to fill that emptiness, you come to me for words. And I oblige, believing I am giving of myself. I believe I am being good, a true friend, in listening to you and allaying your doubts, I like to think I am being true to myself. But which self? Certainly not the one that wanted to grow, and not one that is any richer for our conversations.

Outside your mind, outside the structures my words construct in your realities, there must be a self that is fuller and more complete, a wellspring that these small streams bubble from. Something deeper and truer, quieter and more content. Fuller in its search for cohesive, unifying thought than I am in these chance findings of shared phrases.