The mythic self waits somewhere deep inside,
The alpha and omega, me and me.
It is the work of life to dig within,
Fingers of thought and need like blunt scalpels
Tearing over scabs, making wounds bleed fresh.
To open oneself to the world, to oneself --
This is the heroes travel to the Underworld;
The rebirth in the glen under moonlight
With the fairies dancing in cold stone rings;
This is hanging nine nights on the world tree:
Looking within so you can find yourself.

The dark stranger lurking deep inside us
Glimpsed by others in our hates, fears and hopes.
This is me, and you. This is everyone.
This is the primordial self, the beast.
The one who ignores the homeless, a beast.
The part of me that hates you is a beast,
The part of me that loves you is a beast.
The beast is me, the self is not a beast.
We reinvent ourselves daily, hourly,
Becoming what we want and need to be.

The self is our personal illusion
But is it an illusion to say that?
How far must we dig into our own minds
Until we reach the self that proclaims: "I!
I am me! No other me is me, now."
Do we stop at the "beast" or go deeper?
Do we stop at the me who writes this now?
Yes. This is me. For now, for this moment.
This is self. This is me. The journey .. done.

- Josh MacLeod, Oct 8th, , 2001 (3rd draft)