Read "We are many" by Pablo Neruda. He is one of my favourite poets. I have been long haunted by his surreal love poems. But this one is about our elusive self; our image of what we hope we are against what we actually are.
Lines from that touched a chord somewhere.
All the books I read
lionize 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 DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
I am also waiting for my Dashing Being to show up when I ring a bell, instead of the Old Lazy Self, which keeps popping up, ever so frequently.