Like a cocoon – I wrap myself in my ego.

It envelopes me in it’s assurance.

Tap, tap of the outer serpentine of jumble, silenced with the sheer impenetrable sport of shrinking.

The ego is a snivelling, writhing, engrossing monster.

The less it is fed the hungrier it gets, the more it is fed the hungrier it gets. I

t gnaws at your skull – it hunts those of weakness and carries them to safety.

The tiny box of filtered colour, flicking – inconsequentially past.

The ego feeds off it, it grows and grows and grows.

Suddenly you are eaten. I am eaten.

You are the pixelated periscope of pretty palletes. Apparently I am.

I amount to no more that a number of hearts, both on and off screen. Broken, scattered and tied in a knot. Not. Knots of tension. But is that anymore than what a heart is?

Is that not anymore than what the squeeze of love feels- a knot of tension, tied in a knot. Love is simply the ego being gluttonous.

How dare I – you – we think that loving another is possible.

When I am already so in love with myself.

The monster is hungry again. our-ego


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