Stranger’s Ego

It’s funny because I can only experience the ego, well, my ego, as much as I can experience myself, my life and all I can say about it and all…

But imagine if I cared about you more than I did about me…

I’d probably put you ahead, before stress and however or whatever I think love is or should be.

There’s a lot of ors coming out of this story, it almost, or suddenly feels like an “or” is the best excuse for my, or the, or your, or our, or whatever’s ego to find its way back into the center of our lives, or our stories, or dreams, or whatever…

But it’s possible that it could be my ego speaking as we speak. Two ladies that have become so special to me lately, or to my ego, Liz and/or Linda.

Thier comments keep me going. I no longer think of blogging as something that is outside of me. No, writing is now my second thought, it cometh with the windeth… I suppose.

It makes me so bold that I can even leave a certain story behind and start another and trust that it will come out right.

But then in this moment or that, I have to bring myself back to reality and write something worth putting out there…

Like, oh, the ego… And as I was saying, or, as I was trying to say…

The stars become so much more beautiful in the city when they’re all rare and stuff. But the staff at my local grocery store seem even hungeir than their customers buying foods and drinks of all, or any kind…

Like if you noticed, I tried to talk about someone else, but my ego just seemed to find a way back into the conversation. And so, I have to say that I give up. Let us feed this ego until it die off obesity, and off the face of the earth it shall go… I hope, and I can Be able to express love and kindness, and cry through sadness and get angry and nothing that isn’t worth it, and live life at least as normal as it should be and be happy as far as that goes and hate what’s bad and all that comes with it and throw away all that should be, and be what I am and all that it should be and fin.

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And you’d say,

“They simply wouldn’t believe me.”

Delusion.

More often than not, it is the thought that comes first – and I dwell on it, tangle with it, search it for angles and try to read the past, a future or the present out of it.

When it is somewhat interesting, I might try to feel-out, or fill up, all three. But sometimes I only focus on past, or future, and when it feels really personal, the present.

Sometimes I only have enough in me to consider two of them, and sometimes I just wish I had the bliss that is so often purported, or congratulated to ignorance.

Because it’s as if I’m looking for answers in or from my thoughts. But if I had no answer until now, then what promise is there that I will be able to find any in my own thoughts?

But sometimes I do think I have found some answers. And depending on where I am, I’ll find the discussion with the relevant authorities, like my housemates, or a classmate that I’m similarly failing the Bachelor of Laws with, or my cousin, similarly failing to be a good role model for our youngest siblings, or a friend with whom we are similarly failing to keep the Lord’s commandments…

And when I think I’ve found an answer, I believe it and think that a fool can create wisdom out of his own thin breath.

And when the rest of the world tells me, through rejection of my work applications, the lecturers who grade my work at the reguired minimum (at best. At least)…

I turn back to my thoughts and I say, “to hell with them. They don’t know anything. Perhaps true wisdom does come from the ashes of foolishness”

And thinking about it now, perhaps this is mere, or blatant delusion. Insanity. The mindset of poverty. Thinking I actually write poetry. But the signs suggest that I am just a daydreaming kid in an age growing body, face is getting hairy, while all hopes of success in my fate are growing weary.

But sometimes I just start writing. I used to start by talking, but thought that it would be much neater, and smarter, if I just wrote it and told everyone that I’m a writer, or when I’m around people who humble me, I’d say that I’m a blogger, “I blog”

“about what?” “about anything really. My thoughts, life, anything that comes to my head.”

And that’s me claiming to be humble. But in truth I think it’s fear, that if it’s not good enough, I’ve already made my excuse, “it was just a random thought”, I’d say…

But I just write, and the words just play along, following one-after-another, and apparently not everyone can do that, and so I get a little congratulation, like ignorance for writing bliss…

And I think that maybe this is a talent. But still no money, so maybe there are some that are just as talented, but better, and I think that maybe this is mere delusion. Insanity. But yet I continue to write it.

We are the authors.

We are the authors and you are the editor.

We are the lawyers and you are the judge.

We are the infants and you are the breast.

Yes, we are the toothless and you are our milk.

We are the blind and you’ll be our sound.

If we’d be the prey then you’ll lead the way.

Through thoughts and destruction, will you give the peace?

If Earth be our mother, then please keep her whole.

When we lead with ignorance, will you plead our trial?

Yes I’ll take the hike if you’ll be the trail.

I’ll doubt, I might kill, may you keep me sane.

We are the Champions and you are the prize.

We are the darkness and you light the stars.

We are the dead and you are our breath.

And if we were the same then you’d hold the sail.

No strings attached.

No strings attached so we never have to face the music.

No strings attached so the beat blasts louder than our hearts.

The beat grows louder as we turn the switch, it clouds our minds as it covers on our conscience.

No strings attached so we’ll never do the waltz

No strings attached so we hide between the walls.

A stolen kiss, I miss you, that wasn’t part of the plan.

No strings attached so why are we here again?

When love sings nobody stands a chance.

No strings attached, we planned – it failed, now love comes to the fold.

I said I love you as we danced towards the sunset…

It caused a stir as you stared into the distance…

You said, “no strings attached, so why’d you make it awkward?”

No strings attached, but I think love comes with the wind.

No strings attached, but the innuendo in your voice suggested a little more.

No strings attached, you repeated, this is where it ends.

No strings attached, so you’re there and I still want you here.

Ants.

One or two waltzing on the floor near my foot, I don’t mind.

But as soon as the signal is sent, here arrives the convoy.

I’m beginning to get irritated.

One of them climbs up my foot, the little tingling feeling does not sit well with me.

I am the giant in the room, I bet any slight movement I make takes up an hour in their time.

I am the gentle giant when one or two invade my space…

But I soon become the killing machine when the posse comes around.

So I step, step, step. Trying to kill, kill, kill!

The gentle giant no more.

They hardly die because they’re so small that they find a hiding place between the sole of my foot and the ground.

Ants. One or two waltzing at my feet, I won’t mind.

But one or two in my pants would make me dance.

One climbing up my foot would give me a tingling itch that I’d have to scratch.

Ants, one or two won’t give me a bother. But they always signal for their friends and I have to kill the gentle giant.

Play.

I’ll never forget play. A William Shakespeare tradgey,

A young boy’s kick at a football, and a baby princess in her castle.

A negotiator’s attempt at mind-games, and Socrates’ social contract.

My favourite poet’s word play, and the singer’s voice dancing with the guitar string.

A lost man’s hopes for home, my little sister’s flirt with peer pressure.

Your mother baking us cupcakes, and we got to add on the sprinkles.

Grandpa’s good old days, and our talks about the future.

I’ll never forget play. Though I fell and felt the pain, when I imagined that I were a plane, hopping off the tree branch the one moment, and putting millions in at my nearest bank branch the next, I’ll never forget play, because play always got me through the day.

Perfect.

Perfect people. I imagine what they’re like.

I imagine what they feel like.

To get everything you feel like.

To be everything you’ve wanted.

To be what you could never have imagined. I imagined.

To be me, I wondered.

If anyone ever wondered what it felt like.

To find joy in the life I find joyful.

To fear the threats that threatened me.

And you, I imagined you liked it the way it was, and hated how painful it felt.

And the streets, buzzing with cars I wish I had driven. And people you once knew, and those that you didn’t too.

And the backyard where I sat and thought…

The people who sat here before…

I wonder where their dreams went, I wondered where their dreams slept.

Where their minds rest, after a busy day in the place that I rest.

But that’s all just a perfect world of the things we could never put our fingers on, but at least we put our thoughts to it.