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
supposition,
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,
surprising,
doubting,
discovering
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.
19/10/2015