series2bk4.031

 

You swagger round on ground that's mine, blindly unmindful of my sweated cultivation of a meaningful 'Me', lamming my defensive limbs with the big bludgeon, begrudging me kindling independence. Identity depends on the clothes we wear, the fare we eat, the streets we inhabit, the flags we grab, the clubs we join and (most pointedly) the profession we address. None will I take at a parent's dictation. The creation of my own individual Self is a healthy realization of a planned humanity, standing as a work of art in my own right, and fighting my peculiar battles for rattled existence.      In former times I may have hedged my bets,      but now at last my goals are clearly set.