The Search For Self

Strange--the journey set upon, for I have never traveled seeking just to close in finally on home. I would see it only as an inference laid bare as I would strip away each incident that stained it, cover it with physicality, expose it to the mothering of earth and sky and finally betray it with a death or life, which to be valid must include each other. And that is just beginning. Intangibles are stubborn beasts, and where was I? I could no longer wrap myself in second-hand opinions, assumed cachet, or the wisdom of my peers. Time and its attendant rite already hastened those along. But consciousness is in control. Its mentor is the sun, I, its pale moon with no light of its own, its surface shallow, with serenity I do not feel. One alone with quiet thought finds time's reward draws closer still. Who am I? An imposter, I may well conclude and in a breath, a thief, albeit lavish in beneficence, who stole another's air. ~