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EGO WORM IN TEQUILA BOTTLE
EGO WORM IN TEQUILA BOTTLE
The wind has an affair with a millions grains of sand.
Every New York second we eke out a story; each
Grain is like an ego thinking it to be a Caesar or a god.
Yes, the ego is insufferable puerile king that is never
Satisfied; it cannot endure the good life but wants many
Disgraceful nights. Madam Bovary is just like us.
Freud thought of our incalculable grief and for this, the head
Doctors are trained along these lines. Madam Bovary liked
Torn clothes and inconstant hearts. Freud said she was hysterical.
Every minute of ego is lost to eternity and is like a closed
Casket to our true identity. As we sleep in the womb awaiting
Incarnation, the demiurge gives us a taste for war. We like maya.
For all the unrealness of the ego, it is like a tempest in a tea pot,
Full of sound and fury signifying nothing. Somehow we desired these
False masks and personas and have totally forgotten who we are.
The small I in the ego is like the worm in the bottle of tequila;
It swims to the bottom of the alcohol bottle so it can imbibe
All of the maya. Add salt and lemon for the bitter taste.
