The Self Undefined

That Which Has Not A Thought

Many selves that keep speaking as if they were one
Integration of consciousness broadcast to me
Things that I spend time thinking on. Then I’ll get lost
Making overall sense of them and at great cost
To the raw life experience. Can I get free
From the incessant chatter that never is done?

Were they people outside me and not in my mind
I would tell them to fuck themselves and go away.
Luxury of that kind, though, is not to be had.
Every thought, if not dimpled, is a hanging chad
In its quest for completion to honor the day
But the forgotten self is the one undefined.

Shutting down all the voices means stopping thinking
But to do that at will and be successful too
Is a mission most difficult. If I would try
To get perfectly quiet, I fear I would die
From complete lack of meaning, but that’s never true.
All selves come from one deeper self. It’s a good thing.

I must have some identity in this world real
And affixed to the rational. My thoughts provide
Constant misinformation about who I am
At the most basic level. Should I give a damn
That what precludes acceptance is going inside
Past the crowd to observance that all is ideal?

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