Revenant Ego and the Ongoing Phone Saga

After a painstaking 18 months where my phone decided to play dead, trapping all my nonsensical jottings and poems, I took steps to try and revive it one way, and naturally and accidentally achieved this in quite the opposite way as if nothing had ever happened. Only when I openly admitted that I was ready to let it go did it come back to me. I want to proclaim that I killed my egotist, but I wouldn’t be so pleased if that were the case. I guess, to paraphrase the generational words of my appropriately ephemeral heroes, it all comes back in the end.

Now the pre-answered question arises of whether to edit these poems. Some were finished when they were sealed away from me in the ether (did they exist when they were inaccessible memory, both biological and technological? I can’t pretend to be philosopher enough to know); those completed poems (do not read ‘perfected’) are the snapshot of my trying to produce a snapshot of some moment, and I suppose that’s as human an experience as the intended moment itself or anything else that can be captured, and so I shall leave them as they are, as if they could be anything else anyway.

Now that I have grieved my vanity, buried my ego, and found them the same as ever, here is the first of my dead sea scrolls (O, dramas of personal technology), “Wounded Pride”.

Wounded Pride

You never saw the beauty in the sadness,
And with such pessimism you were missing out on a masterpiece;
That unfinished painting means more to me than you know.
You’re an unfinished sunset, fading into the canvas,
Blood drying on the brushes, the canvas stained in blushes,
Not committing to adrenaline rushes.
It was a barb that you never drew out.
And telling me to give up on that book was the rudest thing,
But I’m too proud to talk about it out loud.

Dissolved on other lips are kisses meant for you.
Weaving between scaffolding to escape,
Talking to my heroes and the devils we share;
Telling me to fall in love with something that can’t love you back in the slightest,
Because hopelessness never dies.
We’ve crooks to fit each other but,
We’re crooks and never lovers:
I pulled your fragile safety barriers down,
Without a home for you afterward,
But I’m too proud to talk about it out loud.

I get nervous of the silence at the end of the songs,
To think about everything I didn’t do and everything I did wrong.
I can’t listen to those songs again,
Without kicking myself,
And those words I sent your way,
Now live up on the shelf,
And echo in the corners of this room,
But I’m too proud to talk about it loud.

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