That's definitely part of it.
I'm like a multi-layered, multi-dimensional, onion to myself when it comes to understanding why I do what I do and say what I say.
The more I dig into my psyche on these matters, the more I come to find that my mind is like an echo-chamber of ego-stroking, with innumerable layers that are, more often than not, completely unaware as to the motives of the layer just below it. It's like, at times I'm really convinced that I'm a good person, at others a real big-shot, but mostly I'm just aware that I'm a mess of subtle lies, interconnected to even subtler lies, as if they are the atomic building-blocks of my consciousness.
I'm so disenchanted with myself that I don't know if I'm capable of being serious, with myself or anyone else, anymore. I'm a walking heap of sarcasm, cynicism and, well, since I'm being honest for once, narcissism.
I feel entitled even though I know I'm a piece of shit, deep down. It's quite a conundrum. Then, to prove my point even further, I look at this labyrinth of deceitful concepts that make up my self-image and it fills me with a sense of greatness (there's the ego, again). It brings the question to mind, "who else out there can be this mysterious and complicated, to this great degree that I am? Aren't I great?"
It's like an endless puzzle of smelling my own farts, and loving every second of it.
#deep
#poetry
It's certainly deep, into something. I'm not sure that I want to know what, exactly, that "something" is. Not as the "self" that I'm identifying with at the moment - the "fart-smelling" self.