What is the Market?

As an introvert I kind of scowl when I see people look to each other for clues on how to act, what to like, etc. I find those answers inside myself and think it silly that other people seem to need to find their answers outside of themselves. But where inside of myself do I find them? The set of things that come about inside me don’t come from nowhere.

I am always pouring over what others put out. I look forward to reading the opinions of others. My favorite section of most papers is the opinion page. I love to read the comments people leave behind on the internet. What am I doing? I’m finding out what the arguments are in the market.

It isn’t my job to come into the marketplace with preconceived ideas. It isn’t my job to say, here is the point of equilibrium. Or, this ought to be the thing. What I do is make connections. What I do is listen. I look at what is before me and I examine it for relationships. I connect it to my past. I look for trends that might be responsible for now. I feel what the arguments suggest I feel. I do exactly what any extrovert would do, taking it even to the level of feeling. But in this even my feelings are not myself. I’m watching even those.

I am the observer who sees from somewhere seemingly outside of myself. What is important to me is not necessarily what is important to the situation. I am free to look through everything and decide whether I like it or not. If I reject it I do not judge it. I do not know when, or if, it will become important to me again.

I am not paid for what I do. I would not accept payment for being me. I can’t imagine accepting payment for that. It would serve to freeze me at the point of equilibrium. It would take me outside of myself, and declare that money is who I am. The I that is I would soon be the servant of the markets, rather than their observer. I would much rather be who that I am.

I am that I am. In the absence of others I thirst, but my throat while feeling dry nonetheless remains my throat. I do not sell myself in order to find water. Perhaps I fear the spring, when the waters run. Perhaps I fear losing myself in a cascade that pours over me so quickly that it takes every moment of my senses and redirects them toward its own end, toward the overwhelming victory of the marketplace. I would, but that doesn’t happen either. Hard as I try that too, like my feelings, is but mere observation. It is like the death that I, as a mortal man, am forced to acknowledge is racing toward me. If I entertain it suddenly it has power, but if I stay still somehow it washes over me.

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