The myth of self

Nothing of us,

not any of this piece of flesh and heart,

can ever be (is ever)

one stable shell

called the self.


We create our own

shifting fairy book of characters

made deliciously of wannabes

and mightbes,

of dreams and crazy wishes,

that may come true

but don’t need to be

more than the tales

of a life lived in


in imagination.


No. There is no

stable self

like a once-and-for-all-time

moulded sculpture

of the far away god

that frays and grays,

and dulls and weathers,

with time

but is always recognised,

even admired,

like a museum piece.


Indeed, there is no stable self,

for we are as uncertain and transient

as a chameleon

on this bank and shoal of time:

colouring, recolouring

inventing, reinventing,




and shifting

with the sun or the cloud

of each living vital morning

in the ambiguous light of day.


Do not be fooled by the myth of self.