“Voila la peinture de l'amour-propre, dont toute la vie n'est qu'une grande et longue agitation la mer en est une image sensible; et l'amour-propre trouve dans le flux et reflux de ses vagues continuelles une fidele expression de la succession turbulente de ses pensees et de ses eternels mouvements”

(“Such is the picture of self-love, of which all life is one continuous and immense ferment. The sea is its visible counterpart and self-love finds in the ebb and flow of the sea's endless waves a true likeness of the chaotic sequence of its thoughts and of its everlasting motion”) --Duke La Rouchefoucald (1613-1680) Maximes  

I DON'T KNOW WHY I AM MOVED to confess that I am essentially a narcissistic, hysterical subjectivist whose primary purpose in life is to be the one and only Subject of subjects transcending every conceivable objection to my existence. Or, even better, to be altogether rid of the objects conceived along with the painful conceptual process itself.   
 
Perhaps I carry on with my true confession because I am in part a two-bit exhibitionist craving attention; but that does not make any sense at all, since, if I were altogether sane or whole, if I were truly One, there would be no show to speak of, or, for that matter, an audience to speak to.   

Of course I could have my cake and eat it too and the show would go on if I were simply to win an Oscar for existing: my hypocritical separation would be resolved momentarily in a tearful climax on the stony stage; I would merge thereupon with my loving audience, and in a grand culmination become my self-gratifying, standing ovation. With all due respect for the possibility, I observe that I duly deserve an Oscar for existing, yet I must be humble to be relatively good while approaching the absolute Good I really am, as I-AM, therefore I beg your pardon. Alas, from my self-alienated perspective, even that dramatic existence, no matter how ecstatic, would be a tragic obstruction to the vainglorious Subject I must be to really be. Nevertheless, please rest assured that I am not immeasurably infatuated with my beloved Subject; indeed, even in this moment of tortuous alienation I am self-moved to confess my vulgar and pathetic need for objects in order to assert myself in anxious complaint.   
 
I say "pathetic" because the more objects there are, the more I am distracted from my solipsistic concern, the Unity I would be if it were not for the brutal diremption endemic to Self-consciousness - I mean the harrowing divorce of Subject and Object.   
 
O, to what extraordinary lengths I must go! to categorically produce and encompass the endless multiplication of objects with my transcendental unity of apperception tool! If only there were only one object again, the mother of all objects, to pick Me up and feed Me at my double-breasted beck and call.   
 
Furthermore (to further corrupt matters in the Name of the Subject, the Object, and their Holy Phenomenal Relation, as One) Self-consciousness is really an incestuous and adulterous Ménage de Trois of subject and two objects. No subject can perceive an object and be identified as subject without another object for comparison; originally, the subject's own body set against the rest of that messy mass known as the Stone. The problems are even further multiplied, for Self-consciousness presents not only the possibility of multiple stones with life thereupon, but of a geometrical progression of other subject/objects such as myself on my rolling Stone, infringing upon the one and only embodied god I might be and very well could be if only I had my way unto the death of the division that renders Me so divisive in all my relations.   
 
Moreover, as I reflect on my superficial self reflected in the reflecting pool, I hear elusive, pear-shaped echoes calling me from the leafy shade all around. Yet I would remain aloof, unmoved by the seductive nymphs who conspire for Me, for they are mine in the first place, and mine to the very last fleshy thigh of them; they are my adolescent apparitions running rampant, insubstantial phantasms in themselves, merely my maya, my wishful friends. Albeit seemingly made of some sort of pliable resounding stone, they are my own fleet-footed shadows, projected images all too superficial and shallow for my grandeur no matter how many times they repeat the hackneyed phrases I am so fond of, especially, 'I love you.'   
 
And that goes for the rest of the Stone as well. No, Madame, multiple objects whether tangible things or intangible illusions or both, each in turn or together necessarily different in quality or in time and position, are just not my type, even though they might walk and talk and otherwise seem to be self-moving as I-AM. For I want one object alone; not the Stone, but my very own Subject who presents no objection whatsoever to Me. That is to say that I, to the extent I am not-I or divided against myself, want to be at-one and thus alone with my All-One, my beloved Pure Self, my dear, unadulterated Subjective Self, or Subject per se. And if my ideal Subject must be a real object for the phenomenal Me to perceive or conceive it, then I shall rest assured in the faith that my Idol is even greater than all the corporate idols melted down and merged for the enjoyment of a single currency. I shall confidently say: "I am the Universe in itself, capitalized because it is my capital and the proper name of the only universe, the Universe. In my concrete universality, I am myself the Unity of all differences." Or, ideally, "All other objects including all gods beside Me are figments of my imagination, and make no difference whatsoever to Me."

No doubt I am a screaming subjectivist at times, Yes, I confess to my hysterical fits, and I have good reason to scream and to flop about in protest against the obscene confrontations to my ultimate scenario. My hysteria is a ploy in self-defense. You see, despite my ravings about the Nothing I might be, I am cursed with enough presence of mind to concede my existential need for a stage or objective ground to scream on, namely, the Stone. Without the Stone, I would have no reason for screaming: I would be Not, the Voice of Silence in Nothing. On the other and, if I were the Stone, I would not have the wherewithal to scream, for again I would be Nothing as far as I am concerned.   
 
Therefore I confess that my transcendence seems to require the Stone as the limit to be transcended; and the Stone can (apparently) roll on without Me. In the beginning the Stone was my god as far as I knew in my absolute dependence on it - of course in my self-induced amnesia, I did not consciously know I existed before the Stone to create it in order push myself around. Soon thereafter I found a place to place my stony fulcrum that Me and my shadow can perform our uplifting play. And who might my shadow be but Me reflected in that strange broken mirror of images of Me, yet not Me until 'They' come together again as the one and only Me in the reflecting pool into which I shall then dive and be fully Me again.   
 
In the interim I am moved to confess to all the fragments of my Self out there that I am essentially a narcissistic, hysterical subjectivist whose primary purpose in life is to be the one and only Subject of subjects transcending every conceivable objection to my existence. Finally, I will be altogether rid of the objects conceived along with the painful conceptual process itself.