The voice of the self suddenly liberated, freshly sprouted, sings mi-mi-mi, or more appropriately, me-me-me.
"Me, listen to me. Only me. I am here. Speaking to you there looking at this, reading this, listen to my voice. I am a prisoner in a human body. I am told I don't exist and the world is an illusion. But I feel things in my hands, I get hurt, I have energy, I like coffee, I fear death, I want sex, me, its me we're talking about. I get mad and have a short temper, prone to sulking, telling jokes, teasing others, who else but me? These feelings are real, right? Whew, it is good to say shit like that, to take off the robes, to own my body again. I want things, good food, comfortable bed, lots of money, dinner parties, vacations, a Buick, an ivy league education, my name in magazines and books; I own this life, I own my ambition. I can't stand it when my work doesn't sell or I don't get a show, I don't pretend, I try not to let things bother me but how can they not? Who doesn't want attention, admiration, respect, and to be wanted. I am surrounded by my life and the history of my decisions, the clothes I wear, what I do every day, what I prefer to eat, what I read, and who my friends are; they all mirror the places I've lived, the TV sitcoms I've endlessly watched, the high school, the girlfriends, and every tiny choice I ever made. It is obvious who I am, right? How could it be otherwise? This is the natural outcome! I want things, I do things, so I am clearly a person on Earth, an American, a jew, a New Yorker, a southerner, a dad, a son, a brother, a husband, a poet, a painter, a computer artist, a programmer, a driver, an eater, an animal, a mammal, a right handed person, a person who meditates, a person with a bank account, a mortgage, a credit card, a debit card, an ATM card, a train ticket, an airplane ticket, a swimming pool, a barn; I am all those, that is who I am, all those, and so many more, an endless number of subtle ways to describe me, all ending in a huge equation, an identity, an infinitely regressing series, a summation that equals me. Isn't it clear that someone lives here? Someone is talking? Someone is alive?"
And finding itself so suddenly liberated, the Ego continues on like this, in a search for itself, for many, many more hours and well into the next day.
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