Reblogged with kind permission, Cassandra Iliou.
I am the pawn and the chess master,
The character breaking loose from the narrator.
Arranger-of-factors to suit me-the-actor.
Noting my emotional reactions with curious detachment.
An abstraction of a billion biological, ideological factors,
Ticking away like clockwork, forcing incremental shifts
In the structure of my bones and the nature of these puppet strings,
Anchoring thought to body.
Do I as narrator see what I need and decide to call it love?
Is anything about me intrinsic or in the world objective?
The mask I wear alone, reading a book,
So influenced, so persuaded by other narratives,
Is that my face? Or recited composure,
A suppression in the face muscles of possible selves,
If let free to be recklessly imagined,
Unattainable enough to destroy with regret,
Attainable enough to destroy with repugnance.
Is compassion merely manipulation?
Is altruistic behaviour the result of a mental math of pros and cons,
A conscious self-creation of a character, to be envied, celebrated, loved.
I am like water.
Will I…
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