When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,
and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,
the trail of words
leads away from "I" --
like breadcrumbs
dropped at intervals
for poetic feet
to follow --
-- at last finding the untamed
where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,
for ignorant opinion or
self-righteous argument --
where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --
The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.
Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.
Ruminating about oneself and one's problems creates the habit of unhappiness. What we think about shapes our perceptions.
If we think about nothing but ourselves - our comfort, our entertainment, our disappointments, whether others please us - should it be any wonder that life is unfulfilling?
My advice to all seekers of self-knowledge, wisdom, happiness, and truth:
Believe *only* what makes you laugh.
