It’s not about me. . .
Although the wall of defensiveness surrounding me –
built by my own hands,
seems to indicate otherwise.
Although the perception of myself as frequent victim,
seems to point to a belief that it is all about me.
Although the belief that I am responsible for you
(and all the world around me and beyond as far as that goes),
seems to have the feel that it is all about me.
Although fear screams inside me;
fear that breeds constant over-functioning anxiety;
fear that implores me to believe that you spend all your time wrapped
in the missed details of our interactions;
seems to point to the consideration that I know it is all about me.
But it is not…
O, ego. You are a sly one – convincing me to believe it is so vital to my living.
What is it anyway, that we would give it so much power?