smokerings

[ The Ego Feeder ("ubiquitous") ]

Some time ago, I posted the love song of Prufrock. I think I was attracted to Prufrock because it made me better than you.
I understand what it must feel like to hide behind a good story, or a poem. Its like wearing a costume. Like Alfred, struggling into his dress. But in letters, we attempt to stay naked.
I want to talk about Prufrock. I think I miscalculated, somewhere, the warmth of yellow smoke rubbing against a window pane. I wish I could marvel at the way a cat turns a corner, or slips over a platform, and follow its long and liquid step.
then i will speak of Michelangelo.
I should write about more relevant. Have you been keeping up? Some day, I'll be deeply satirical.
Each letter is heavy, a link in chain-mail, like armour. The walls of the feeder, and a tiny perch, where the ego can sit and peck at the grains inside. If your eye is trained, you'll know where to find the chinks. And you'll know where this water-tight leaks.

If I were to come back here, I'd remove Alfred, because no one knows him or where he's from. Who cares about the Sabine women? Why was something so gruesome so damn funny?
Then, I'd take out the quote. No one cares. And the thing about the cat. Unnecessary.
I iron my clothes from top to down, front and then back.

Then, I'd take out Prufrock. But as I hit "Publish", I'll still know i'm better than you. Somehow, in my secret dark heart, I'll find a way to believe that much about myself. That I know more, see more, understand more. Can write more openly, sincerely, honestly. I am the best, and you can check my resume if you like.

"My Id knows what it wants. My ego knows better." and we laughed and we laughed.


I wanted to be centre of the universe, once. In retrospect- where else would I be?