You have always found a way to inflate yourself, a thunderhead of you a rainer upon parades keeping your own side dry.
Praise your portolio, record yourself accomplishing that, but wait, thereβs more of you the lost boy dressed as a hero.
The prison of ego comes first, then the crippling psychic wounds and the inevitable chaos that just ****** you off because there is just too much to manage and you cannot do it alone but you donβt dare tell anyone so you fake it and you donβt make it and one day while you are too busy refusing to be grateful for the awesome mystery of your own chi a tagger defaces your BMW in the parking lot of Whole Foods and you weep into your tofu.