Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be setto show me off as a man of intelligence,the fool I keep concealed on my persontakes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions,
I am dozing in the midstof people of some distinction,and when I summon my courageous self,a coward completely unknown to meswaddles my poor skeletonin a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,instead of the fireman I summon,an arsonist bursts on the scene,and he is I.
There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?
All the books I readlionize dazzling hero figures,brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my
NG
NG,out comes the same
LD
ZY
LF,and so I never know just
HO I AM,nor how many I am, nor
HO WE
LL BE
NG.
I would like to be able to touch a belland call up my real self, the truly me,because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing,
I am far away;and when I come back,
I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happensto other people as it does to me,to see if as many people are as I am,and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in thingsthat, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
