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.