＃５７

All that I am,
This mosaic of self —
Undercurrents of mind
Bound in sickness, in health

Never totally one,
Nor completely distinct,
But fuzzy subprocess
Inextricably linked

Platformed on hardware
Behind my eyes,
To filter perception
And take on disguise

All that you see,
This portrait of soul —
A mask and a shield
Conveying a whole

Of persona and ego,
Instinct and will,
Of thoughts – observations
That cannot sit still

An illusion of carefully,
Discretely packaged,
And neatly presented
Emotional baggage

But all that I am,
This coalescence of sense –
Interrogated further,
Simply drops its defense

And scampers off, laughing,
In every direction
As though bemused
By futile introspection

It never abandons;
The self always creeps back,
Reassumes control,
Lights the pitch black,

Content to pull the strings
Without being known,
Apathetic to whether
I believe the show

There seems no other path
But to accept the ride,
Express what I can
Of mere glimpses inside,

For this psyche of mine,
This qualia gizmo,
The nature of which
I am not to know

By definition,
It is all I’ve got,
All I think and feel,
Fragmented or not,

So whatever I am —
When the going gets tough,
Whoever I am —
I hope I will be enough