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«?

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

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

Me is all I've ever wanted to be.

They were asking what I think about me. But I was afraid of what they would do with the information if I gave it to them. In truth, I was afraid to discover it myself, too. So I probably prevaricated for a while, pretending to tie my shoelace, check the timetable I always carry for such moments – yes, such a challenge *was scheduled but they are never usually on time – and enquired of one, whether we could have met before, at such-and-such a conference or interview. After a bit of this, the atmosphere changed. I could teleport, or I could try and cooperate, as we all wanted. Me, I said. I think it's gone astray.

Me I Myself am the only me I know. You are always you but only I am me

When I wrote of the women in their dancec and wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is no memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.

No more masks! No more mythologies!

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.

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

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.