Borges , Myself, a Wolf, a Rabbit, a Pig , a Bear and I Remix
It is times like today, I wonder if I am the same as I believe I am. I question if there is a real self inside and about my others. Is it not true that we all have our animal selves? For are we not all made of many? As I find myself in an empty room I grunt, howl, snort, and coo to my other selves and always there is a reply. I leave the white washed walls and hear the sounds of many composites from my past, my future and our present. How do I declare myself human when I feel more animal than material. Are we real or is this imagined? I wander the forest and I momentarily pause, frozen , noticing that I am no longer of this same head and mind, but I find myself in a leg-raised stance, pissing on all that is now mine. I am starving for meat, for flesh, for the opportunity of carnal pleasure. I search the horizon looking for my young red cloaked treat, my loins on fire for she is all I desire. This is a thirst that is not of my own. And where are my brothers? My head is filled with screams. Where are they? It is not difficult for me to admit that myself- the wolf is only one of many. I am also rabbit. I shit two distinct types of feces: hard droppings and soft black pellets, the latter of which I immediately eat. And with my seed I seek to produce many. Yet the sacs of the rabbit self are barren. The only crowd is the company of my many others, locked in the hourglass behind my inner door. It is not me that creates for I am nothing. I am obese, filthy, gluttonous, and with the stench of disgust. I feed on garbage, rotting carcasses, dead insects and I have even eaten my own young. If this is me behind this mask then I must ask myself what is the mask under my flesh. I recognize myself not of this, not in my creation, but in these animals. I will not run away, for I can smell that you are out there. It is “I” that feels suddenly sleepy. I shall feed on what I may, find shelter and awake next spring.
I do not know which one of us will return.

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