Me

Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun

Me, a name I call the rational, conscious part of my brain. Freud called this the ego, or self. So what are the parts of me that aren't me? Do my subconscious thoughts share my existance, or just interact with it? Can I (being »me«) assume responsibility for the uncontrolled actions of my id and superego? And if this is »me«, then who the hell are »you«?

It is funny but over my life of 63 years (so far!) I have always been the same me. I recognise some changes in my decision making abiliites, and my hopes and desires, but I am still the same me I remember about 58 years ago. (I don't remember much before then.) Maybe others who have actually grown up into adults have changed more. I have had a problem with growing up--to bad I have no problem with growing old.

I wonder if anbyone else feels the same?

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

Important words to remember for scrabble are: Do Re Me So La Te (Do)

I am, therefore I am. Me Myself and I.

The other day, someone  – the late Wittgenstein, actually, via a newspaper – told me that I couldn't have a private language/conversation, or any kind of life really, until I had been sufficiently 'used'. Well, I've been feeling very 'used' of late, so here I am: Me – approved used (as they say in the VW advert) – so who's going to start a private conversation with me? Lots of philosophical jokes guaranteed!!

I finally found that the force at the center of the universe is not me.

The dance stops. The men walk back to the walls, and talk in low tones or with their hands. There is little conversation, yet everyone seems to be sharing some secret. A woman looks at a small boy wandering away, and he comes back to her.
Strange, I think, and then remember. These people are not sharing words – they are sharing a mood. Everyone is happy. I am so used to white people that it seems strange so many people could be together, and because the night is beautiful outside, and the music is beautiful. I try hard to forget school and white people, and be one of these – my people. I try to forget everything but the night, and it is a part of me...
I look around the room. All the eyes are friendly; they all laugh. No one questions my being here. The drums begin to beat again, and I catch the invitation in the eyes of the old men. My feet begin to lift to the rhythm, and I look out beyond the walls into the night and see the lights. I am happy. It is beautiful. I am home.

Feeling

Feel like wanting to kiss you on your soft gentle lips,
Wanting to pull your gentle arms closer,
Finding each other before the day goes on,
Listening to our hearts beating slower to catch up to each other,
Feeling your soul holding me higher then it has ever been and then to drop me
in your arms to feel strength,
My hands anxious to feel your love,
Feeling my tears drip down my pale face only to be seeing you,
Feeling you deep inside me,
Our souls have met once before you and I,
While our souls talk we listen