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.