Illusions, and other powerful things.

My self-centredness angers me sometimes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how self-centred we (I) can be sometimes.

It’s been getting to me.

A tidal wave.

A red-hot bubble of rage.

A deep, dark vortex of self-disgust and shame.

Monstrous, human, fearsome, afraid.

I’m scared

of myself.

I love

myself.

I don’t know what’s right or what’s real.

These possibilities, these potentialities, all with such intensity, all jostling for space. To be seen, to be heard, to be known.

And isn’t that what we all want, at the end of the day?

Photo by yulia pantiukhina on Unsplash

When we break, we open. Sometimes for the first time. Sometimes at the same time.

As I break, I ask myself, what are you trying to deny, hide or run away from?

It’s so easy for us to talk about ourselves. But what else do we have to talk about? What else do we really, truly, know anything about?

The walk home can be a lonely one. But everything else is self-indulgent.

And self-knowledge is also an illusion of sorts.

It assumes a level of knowledge, insight and experience —or at least conj…