An Egocentric
Something egocentric has taken is claim upon me.
Every word you write is meant for me.
Every thing you say is said to me.
Evidence, everywhere, it’s about me, I see.
Me, me, me.
In this disheveled state I’m being too sensitive.
Yet sensitivity is my soul. It is the very beast that shows me things before they occur. It is the collection of experiences I read which foretells it all: foreboding and clear.
And ecstatic.
It’s that sensitivity to touch. I am a sensory person. I can as easily turn it off as I can command the sun to stop its shining. It’s that sensitivity to words, reading into everything I see. I am an analytical person. I can as easily turn it off as I can direct the clouds to flow. It’s that sensitivity to sound. I hear you when you do not speak. I am clairvoyant. I can as easily turn it off as I can wish gravity to STOP.
If wishes were horses…
I would fly away.


















