myself

me, myself, this apparent illusion of mine
that defines me as myself,
or perhaps, it is my not self that is me.
either way, I wonder if it is the same self
of me that you experience too.

surely, it seems to me, that I
could have come up with a grander I,
one, who could, at least, understand this self
my neurons have fabricated.

never-mind if I am trying to fathom myself.
I am still wondering if my experience of you
is the you of your neurons, or the you of mine.

I fancy myself footloose and fancy free,
free to pursue my dreams,
and free to love you
but if you and I exist only of tangled neurons...

synapses aplenty firing upon neural impulses
in some determined order shaped by the evolution
of a lifetime of synaptic firings ignited by stimuli
introduced by sources outside this very self.

It seems that this self is a product
of neural patterns evolutionarily formed.
these tangled webs predicated by all of history
conspiring to shape and weave a fabricated image
that exists not of itself but totally interdependent.                      

oh how I wish I could fancy what a grand tale this is
but it seems that I am never satisfied with its myth,
though seemingly helpless to improve upon its edit,
left only to gaze from its pages hoping for a better rewrite.

me, an imaginary story whose meaning derives
not only from the keystrokes struck but the impressions
they leave upon the neurons stimulated in the tangled webs
of all the other characters who make up this fabled tale.