Egoism: A Short Prose

When we find ourselves in a state of egoism, history itself dissolves, for after all, the destiny of history is death. History itself, the undoer of many, undoes itself, instantly this reminds me in T.S Eliot’s Wasteland, ‘‘Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.’’[1] History itself becomes a dog’s bone and the dog being the religious, the bourgeois or the proletariat gnaws on that dirty bone that has transferred itself from mouth to mouth — meanwhile the egoist does not care to become proprietor over the Necropolis of history. History is like a mountain heap of bones with a dirty dog sitting all regally on a throne of bones, miserable over his accomplishments. The Religious, the bourgeoisie and the communist have always praised the bones of society, like necromancers they worship the dead. Egoism on the other hand is a theory of the ‘‘Living’’, for the egoist does not care for becoming the direct proprietor over bones, but instead cares to become the owner of that dirty dog, so we can tie it to a leash, control its superficial instincts, for if the egoist owns the dirty dog, he shall also own the dirty bone.

[1] T.S Eliot, ‘‘The Wasteland’’