What is Self?
The capital ‘I’
That we hold on to, so dearly
Is there any ‘real’ coherent self
That we vainly defend
Self is but
A will-o’-the-wisp
A receding wave that never comes back
A sandy desert which changes its contour every moment
A butterfly that eludes our grasp
A constant flux of ideas
A construct
To Fool……To Divide
The Man ……The Woman
The West……The East
The Master ……The Slave
The White……The Black
The Self…….The Other
Self is not one but many,
Self is but not steady
It evolves with every word, we record,
Every structure, we make
Self is but not…
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