Umlungu

Someone told me – myself, I think. Yes, my self, for whom else would I take any notice? "Your poems," I said to me, "many are pretty much self-obsessed, aren't they; all about the very special, unique, joys and tribulations – though mostly tribulations, of being you. Not too much 'Every Day' humanity going on in your writing, is there?" "Yes, you may be right," I told me, "but 'Every Day Poems' they most certainly are, for this is one's life when one happens to live as a neurotic, anti-social, extrovert, introverted invert who writes poems in private, personal diary-form over many decades, and then decides to slap some of them together in poetry-book-form. Not much getting away from the self in a diary, is there? Not too much chat about politics and social reform either, particularly with so much intrusive self-yakking going on all the time. "I wish I could say, I am ready at last to step up and out, volunteer and do good altruistic works for humankind, but that would be a sham, because quite frankly deep in my heart of hearts I don't give a rat's arse." "Yes, no," I replied, "I think you are right." I took myself out for coffee, and we sat in the window of the café watching the other people's world go by: disinterested, ironic, separate and melancholic, but also taking in everything around us, amused and appalled, playing our game of stripping the people to the bare bone and beyond. "There now," I suggested after a time, "don't you feel better, having unburdened and faced up to your-me-me-me self?" "No, I cannot say I do," I confirmed, "but I think I will leave you now and return to my solitary room . . . I would like to be alone." "Yes, okay . . . me, too." So there I am, you see – we do have a few good times together, me and I; and life not entirely angst ridden . . . though life in general is, for all people that on earth do dwell.