Is it that you try to steal my identity? You take my name, and thinking yourself Italian, you mould it and morph it, and make it your own. But, oh, my dear friend, I am the original egotist. The Neurocentric, centred on himself; on his own wants and desires, and on his complaints about the life that never went to plan. For a closet exhibitionist am I, and on fame and fortune, I have my eye. My thoughts appear in words in print, yet of my intentions I give no hint. In silent thought, alone I sit. Would you ever know I’m a hypocrite?
I use words to please you, and words to impress, but I’d never, ever give you my e-mail address. A closet exhibitionist, this tale’s about, and now, dear friend, I’m coming out. I’ve said it now, but never before, that my intentions have never been that pure. I use words to impress and words to please, but reality speaks louder: my heart is diseased. I want your praise, I want respect (so it can take place of real intellect), where you’ll sit me down; you’ll say I’m deep, while in reality I’m fast asleep. Slow to respond, and slow to act, to worldly crisis I never react. The centre of attention is me, me, me: this is the Neurocentric, can’t you see? In coming out, I’m doing the same, hoping for fortune, praise and fame. You’ll never find an intention pure, until, one day, I instate the cure.
So true, I know, it’s been some time, and I said I’d stop this game of mine. I told you once, and maybe twice, that the Neurocentric had to die. I journeyed from A and settled with B, as my obsession with religion challenged me. No proof here, and no proof there, I wined and wailed, until my ego granted me asylum. Where did it start, I doubt you wonder, but I’ll tell you all the same, now it’s over. I crash landed on an island in the Hebridean Sea, where Columba had established a monastery some centuries before. In my mind, I wrestled with God: “You’re not real. You’re not there.” And when I though that I had won, I set out on a journey on the long road to the left. Outwitting every adversary, I had to prove myself. To me. I meddled with music, and failed; with desire, to succumb. Then, without warning, words began to flood through my finger tips and puddle on the page. I was the writer of the script. I chose whether I was the wealthy or the victim, the hero or the poor. I found words to feed my ego and words to quench my thirst. With the latter, I journeyed from A, mocking the destination. And then B came to me.
I didn’t have time to run away. Didn’t have time to make escape. When the Angelic Verses catch you, you’re caught. And that, my friend, is that. My contradictory nature brought into check, destroying this awkward chameleon mind. Centricity ordered to move from the self to the self’s Creator, shown so clearly in signs as proof. The Neurocentric must fade away, expire, and finally vanish. There’s only one good thing about an egotist, and Lucille Harper already said it: “they don’t talk about other people.” So say goodbye to the Neurocentric, and hello to his cheap imitation. You’ll remain, when he ceases to exist, but unfortunately you’re left with the next egotist. Oh, my.