Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
t to me under thing
ted for anoty.
o be set
to selligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On ot
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coely unknoo me
son
in a tiny reservations.
ately s into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and hing I can do.
must I do to distinguish myself?
myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming h self-assurance.
I die hem;
and, in films he wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my DAShING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never kno hO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor hO E ILL BE BEING.
I o be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not alloo disappear.
ing, I am far away;
and w.
I so see if thing happens
to ot does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if to themselves.
horoughly explored,
I am going to schings
t, o explain my problems,
I s of self, but of geography.