The Self Is Born
Layer on layer, on yet another,
We cast our pretty, confusing shields,
For fear of others seeing who we are.
Within the web, we can no longer find
What we are now, who we were
Just a short time ago,
So we go searching.
Digging deeper and deeper,
Turning right and left,
Scraping shins, bonking heads,
Turning black and blue from dangers
Not only imagined but real,
Following clues only we can see
Until at last, we gyrate down to self.
So fragile at the heart of who we are,
Yet whose spindly limbs, a new born coltís,
Already stand upright, moments only after birth.
The trouble is remembering, treasuring,
Once we leave the maze behind
And flee back to the real world
What it was like in there
When the self was born anew
And we knew the intimacy of
naked knowledge with no veils or illusions.
© Nyuka AnaÔs Laurent 02.02.2010