The deepest part of my being
I have never shared with anyone;
so that between me and the world
there is a fiction – called “self” –
which interacts according to our
puerile desires of security and pleasantry.
For they would have me believe
that my spirit is either non-existent,
or too fragile,
to withstand the burden of such a revelation.
To hell with them.
What kind of life are they living?
I have never shared with anyone;
so that between me and the world
there is a fiction – called “self” –
which interacts according to our
puerile desires of security and pleasantry.
For they would have me believe
that my spirit is either non-existent,
or too fragile,
to withstand the burden of such a revelation.
To hell with them.
What kind of life are they living?