That’s Quite Presumptuous of Me
I am a bunch of aggregate,
Glued with some pretty fine paste;
Parts motivated by this unity
called me.
Me is who I am to me,
Whom I consider I;
I am who I am
when I am who I am,
and that’s when I’m me.
I’ve always assumed that I exist;
The very questioning of me,
Presumes me presuming.
Perhaps I have neglected to think
that this aggregate
has no reality beyond it’s parts,
And self-consciousness is only a part,
swimming in the etheric void,
with the rest of the universe.
The screen of consciousness
reflects a viewer,
Who insists on trying
to run this ship;
Can I deal with voiding me,
The almighty captain,
If I am nobody
beyond this reflection?
How can somebody,
be a nobody?
Especially me?
Who is this somebody
I call me?
Empty though I may be,
This one part of me I call me,
Is very precious to me.
I wouldn’t be who I am
With out me recognizing me.
For now I will presume that I exist,
So that I can enjoy my life.