In the shifting haze of a dream, the words of Eric Arthur Blair drift like smoke: *“When you ask for little, little is what you receive. First, you scrimp on yourself—then the world scrimps on you.”*
A woman who denies herself becomes a whisper in the wind, unnoticed. At first, she saves pennies where she might have spent pounds, then life itself tightens its purse strings. Modesty, gentleness, kindness—these virtues are praised in novels, rewarded in ink-stained pages. But life is no novel. To the cunning, a meek heart is but a tool to be wielded.
Not all light serves good. When decency walks hand in hand with deceit, the kind soul fuels the very shadows that swallow it. So the gentle must learn to see clearly—not just others, but themselves. Why does a woman so often pare herself down to nothing? What does she gain?
No one will thank you for your sacrifices. It is not just money—it is stolen hours of rest, swallowed desires, dreams folded small to fit another’s pocket. People grow accustomed. Ask for scraps, and scraps you shall be fed. First you diminish yourself; then others follow suit.
When exhaustion claims her, when she turns her face to the sky and demands *why?*, silence answers. No one rejoices in her weariness, in her hollowed-out joy. Neither she, nor they.
Bad habits carve bad lives:
– Good habits do not always grant good fortune—but bad habits guarantee misery. The habit of self-denial begins with love—a husband, a child. The world rearranges itself. Once, she was sovereign in her own mind. Now, she is but a servant. A mother loves so fiercely she forgets herself. A woman in love trades her hours, her comfort, her ambitions for a fleeting smile. The children learn to take, the lover to expect—she taught them this life.
What happens when she reclaims herself? Fury. No one says, *“What a gift you gave us! Now we shall give in return.”* No—they rage at the loss of what once was freely taken.
If fear stifles her defiance, years blur past. One day, she wakes and wonders: *Where has my life gone?* If you do not wish to vanish behind the lives of others, cease your frugality. Do not let them take what is yours. Every soul deserves its own measure of joy.
Self-doubt has ruined countless chances:
– To stint on yourself is to believe you are unworthy. *That job is not for you—others are cleverer. Why learn to paint, to dance? The world brims with talent, and you have none. That woman is lovelier—her nose straighter, her hair fuller.*
Self-denial is a cage. It trains you to settle, to flinch at refusal. Failure is no excuse to lower your gaze. It is a habit that smothers dreams, that chains you to the small and the safe—far from happiness.
Do not begrudge yourself time, books, whims, small delights. Hours spent in joy are never wasted—they refill what was drained.
Sometimes I think people believe they will live forever—waiting for signs from the heavens, measuring themselves against strangers, postponing until some perfect dawn. Do not shrink your soul. Do not compare. If I weighed my words against Shakespeare or Wilde, I would think myself unworthy of ink and parchment.
*© Eric Arthur Blair*
