Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,

    I cannot settle on a single one.

    t to me under thing

    ted for anoty.

    o be set

    to selligence,

    the fool I keep concealed on my person

    takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

    On ot

    of people of some distinction,

    and when I summon my courageous self,

    a coely unknoo me

    son

    in a tiny reservations.

    ately s into flames,

    instead of the fireman I summon,

    an arsonist bursts on the scene,

    and hing I can do.

    must I do to distinguish myself?

    myself together?

    All the books I read

    lionize dazzling hero figures,

    brimming h self-assurance.

    I die hem;

    and, in films he 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 kno hO I AM,

    nor how many I am, nor hO E ILL BE BEING.

    I o be able to touch a bell

    and call up my real self, truly me,

    because if I really need my proper self,

    I must not alloo disappear.

    ing, I am far away;

    and w.

    I so see if thing happens

    to ot does to me,

    to see if as many people are as I am,

    and if to themselves.

    horoughly explored,

    I am going to schings

    t, o explain my problems,

    I s of self, but of geography.