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


Lidded Musings

As my flesh crawls again from indecision, My throat is parched from lack of conviction. It is harder to lay down than it is to stand, it is harder to stop than it is to go.

If we keep on keeping on, then eventually we are able to know.

We are able to understand.

We are told yea – when it means no.

We are told more- when it means none. How is this ok?

When will it all begin to unravel, the twine of my mind? It’s a tightly knit ball with a tightly knit secret. I am shiny and bright and new. But don’t you dare let me slow down or stop.

For in the still, comes a lurking of the truth serum. A serum so potent that the strongest man and the finest lady will shiver with the coating of truth.

I am only what I project. Project: Something to which is created. We are constantly creating ourselves to be reflections of the person we would like to be, the person we think the world wants to see. I

say turn off that fucking treadmill. Smash that selfie camera into the ground.

Fucking who are you deep inside. Are you the sloth who watches hours of TV? The guy who picks his nose in the car? The girl who spends hours preening in a vain hope to attract the right mate. Who the fuck are you?

I wonder what the world would look like if we all just were ourselves and not these projects of our own lives. c8b2925a0756932ee06ca2a0fe6ed0a0.jpg